Jess. Seeing her brought back so many memories, and the frigidness in his heart thawed a bit.
She looked like...home.
It hurt to think about Beckon, Texas. About his ranch and the life he’d had there once. It hurt to think about how he’d met Jessica’s sister, Janie, and the way their small-town lives had entwined. In one respect, the tragedy that occurred more than two years ago might’ve been a lifetime ago. In another, it seemed as if time was standing still. Either way, his wife, Janie, and their unborn child were gone. They were never coming back. His mouth began to twitch. An ache in the pit of his stomach spread like wildfire and scorched him from the inside out.
He focused on Jessica. She carried a large tapestry suitcase woven in muted tones of gray and mauve and peach. He’d given Janie and Jessica matching luggage three years ago on their birthdays. It had been a fluke that both girls, the only two offspring of Mae and Harold Holcomb, were born on the same day, seven years apart.
Grabbing at the crutches propped beside his lounge chair, Zane slowly lifted himself up, careful not to fall and break his other foot. Mariah would have his head if he got hurt again. His casted wrist ached like the devil, but he refused to have his assistant come running every damn time he wanted to get up. It was bad enough she’d taken on the extra role of nursemaid. He reminded himself to have his business manager give Mariah a big fat bonus.
She halted midway on the deck, her disapproving gaze dropping to his busted wrist and crutches before she shot him a silent warning. “Here he is, Jessica.” Mariah’s peach-pie voice was sweet as ever for his houseguest. “I’ll leave you two alone now.”
“Thanks, Mariah,” he said.
Her mouth pursed tight, she about-faced and marched off, none too pleased with him.
Jessica came forward. “Still such a gentleman, Zane,” she said. “Even on crutches.”
He’d forgotten how much she sounded like Janie. Hearing her sultry tone stirred him up inside. But that’s about all Janie and Jessica had in common. The two sisters were different in most other ways. Jess wasn’t as tall as her sister. Her eyes were a light shade of green instead of the deep emerald that had sparkled from Janie’s eyes. Jess was brunette, Janie blonde. And their personalities were miles apart. Janie had been a risk-taker, a strong woman who could hold her own against Zane’s country-star fame, which might’ve intimidated a less confident woman. From what he remembered about Jess, she was quieter, more subtle, a schoolteacher who loved her profession, a real sweetheart.
“Sorry about your accident.”
Zane nodded. “Wasn’t much of an accident. More like stupidity. I lost focus and fell off the stage. Broke my foot in three places.” He’d been at the Los Angeles Amphitheater, singing a silly tune about chasing ducks on the farm, all the while thinking about Janie. A video of his fall went viral on the internet. Everyone in country music and then some had witnessed his loss of concentration. “My tour’s postponed for the duration. Can’t strum a guitar with a broken wrist.”
“Don’t suppose you can.”
She put down her luggage and gazed over the railing to the shore below. Sunlight glossed over deep steely-blue water as whitecaps foamed over wet sand, the tide rising. “I suppose Mama must’ve strong-armed you into doing this.”
“Your mama couldn’t strong-arm a puppy.”
She whipped around to face him, her eyes sharp. “You know what I mean.”
He did. Fact was, he wouldn’t refuse Mae Holcomb anything. And she’d asked him this favor. It’s huge, she’d said to him. My Jess is hurtin’ and needs to clear her head. I’m asking you to let her stay with you a week, maybe two. Please, Zane, watch out for her.
He’d given his word. He’d take care of Jess and make sure she had time to heal. Mae was counting on him, and there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Janie’s mother. She deserved that much from him.
“You can stay as long as you like, Jess. You’ve got to know that.”
Her mouth began to tremble. “Th-thanks. You heard what happened?”
“I did.”
“I—I couldn’t stay in town. I had to get out of Texas. The farther, the better.”
“Well, Jess, you’re as far west as you could possibly go.” Five miles north of Malibu by way of the Pacific Coast Highway.
Her shoulders slumped. “I feel like such a fool.”
Reaching out, he cupped her chin, forcing her eyes to his, the darn crutch under his arm falling to rest on the railing. “Don’t.”
“I won’t be very good company,” she whispered, dang near breathless.
His body swayed, not allowing him another unassisted moment. He released her and grabbed for his crutch just in time. He tucked it under his arm and righted his position. “That makes two of us.”
Her soft laughter carried on the breeze. Probably the first bit of amusement she’d felt in days.
He smiled.
“I just need a week, Zane.”
“Like I said, take as long as you need.”
“Thanks.” She blinked, and her eyes drifted down to his injuries. “Uh, are you in a lot of pain?”
“More like, I’m being a pain. Mariah’s getting the brunt of my sour mood.”
“Now I can share it with her.” Her eyes twinkled for a second.
He’d forgotten what it was like having Jess around. She was ten years younger than him, and he’d always called her his little sis. He hadn’t seen much of her since Janie’s death. Cursed by guilt and anguish, he’d deliberately removed himself from the Holcombs’ lives. He’d done enough damage to them.
“Hand up your luggage to me,” he told her. With his good hand, he tucked his crutches under his armpits and propped himself, then wiggled his fingers. If he could get a grip on the bag...
Jessica rolled her eyes and hoisted her valise. “I appreciate it, Zane. But I’ve got this. Really, it’s not heavy. I packed light. You know, summer-at-the-beach kind of clothes.”
She let him off the hook. He would’ve tried, but fooling with her luggage wouldn’t have been pretty. The doggone crutches made him clumsy as a drunken sailor, and he wasn’t supposed to put any weight on his foot yet. “Fine, then. Why don’t you settle in and rest up a bit? I’m bunking on this level. You’ve got an entire wing of rooms to yourself upstairs. Take your pick and spread out.”
He followed behind as she made her way inside the wide set of light oak French doors leading to the living room. “Feel free to look around. I can have Mariah give you a tour.”
“No, that’s not necessary.” She scanned over what she could see of the house, taking in the expanse—vaulted ceilings, textured walls, art deco interior and sleek contemporary furniture. He caught her vibe, sensing her confusion. What was Zane Williams, a country-western artist and a born and bred Texan, doing living on a California beach? When he’d
