the sound of his voice.
“Lorna!” She turned to see the fat toad gesturing toward another pile of garbage. Unfortunately the bags were made of clear plastic, meaning Texas Tom had seen something inside of them he didn’t like.
“What?”
“Those damn cowboys threw the silverware out with the paper plates. You’re gonna have to go through all this and make sure none of them forks get lost. I came here with four hundred forks and I’m damn well gonna leave with four hundred forks.”
She would give four hundred dollars—which would pretty much empty her bank account—to go back to Aunt Carol’s little house and soak in a bathtub filled with vanilla-scented water. Going through garbage was not her idea of a great way to end the day. “Look, Tom, don’t you think I should finish rinsing dishes?” She was standing there in wet tennis shoes, hose in hand, a stack of platters and various cooking utensils beside her that needed to be cleaned up before Tom’s nephew could finish loading everything in the truck.
“Yeah, but ’fore we leave we’re counting forks, or someone’s gonna pay,” he grumbled, his gaze dropping to her bare legs. He’d told her to wear a waitress uniform, so she’d gone to Marysville and spent thirty-seven dollars she could have used for the phone bill. She’d been so happy to find work she hadn’t questioned the expense.
“It takes money to make money,” her mother always said. And what would it take to paw through mounds of garbage? Rubber gloves and a decent vocabulary of cuss words, Lorna decided. She would curse quietly under her breath so no one would hear her. After all, some of those words might give Texas Tom ideas.
She tried to hurry through the cleaning of the cookware. The sun had set, though lanterns were placed around the tent and over the cleanup area next to the grills. Tom’s nephew was a decent enough kid, and the sooner she got the racks cleaned up, the sooner he and his uncle could head back to Marysville. With or without four hundred forks.
“Hey,” the nephew said, as she finished the last of the trays and turned off the hose. “How’s it goin’?”
“We can’t leave until we count the silverware,” she told him. “He thinks some of it ended up in the garbage.”
“Cripe.” The boy picked up all four racks of glassware as easily as if they were filled with paper cups. “He’s on that kick again?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’ll help,” he offered, “as soon as I get the truck loaded up. I’m about halfway done.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Lorna picked up a lantern and swung it toward the piles of garbage bags. “With any luck it won’t take me long. The forks would sink to the bottom of the bags, right?”
He lowered his voice. “My uncle’s a real prick sometimes.”
“I just want to get paid,” Lorna said, setting the lantern on the bed of a truck. “He promised cash.”
“Yeah,” the boy said. “I know what you mean. Good luck.”
Good luck. Was there any such thing? Maybe, maybe not. “Luck” would be having the man of your dreams finally notice you. “Luck” would be landing a job with health benefits and a three-week vacation. Lorna untied the nearest garbage bag and put on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. “Luck” would be never having to work for Texas Tom again.
2
“YOU’RE NOT DRIVING, ARE YOU?”
Jess shook his head at the bartender. “Walkin’,” was his reply. He would walk to his truck and sleep in the cab. Wouldn’t be the first time, though those days were years ago. In his misspent youth.
Those were the days. Now, at thirty-seven, he couldn’t drink much whiskey—or anything else alcoholic for that matter—without hurting himself. It was hardly worth it, but today’s wedding preceded by yesterday’s divorce were events worth trying to forget.
He set down his last empty glass and, stepping over the bodies of a couple of cowboys who couldn’t hold their liquor, managed to exit the tent without embarrassing himself by falling flat on his face. Most everyone had gone home—or on to the bars to finish what they’d started. Even the musicians were packing up, and over in the far corner of the park, lights highlighted the removal of Texas Tom’s traveling barbecue feast.
Jess thought he’d parked somewhere over there, but he wasn’t sure. He remembered passing the Grange on his way in, so he figured he was heading in the right direction if he walked toward the lights. As he got closer, he was surprised to see that pretty little waitress rifling through the garbage like a starving dog.
“Honey,” he drawled, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t scare her. She jumped anyway, then turned around and stared at him.
“What?”
“Honey,” he tried again, reaching for the wallet in his back pocket. “You sure as hell shouldn’t be in this pre-pre-predicament.” He pulled a couple of twenties out of his wallet and handed them to her.
“What are you doing?” She didn’t look too happy to take the money. In fact, she tried to stuff it back into his palm. And succeeded, too, before she took a step backward.
“Buy yourself a decent meal,” he said, holding out the bills again. “Decent meals,” he said, correcting himself. With forty dollars she ought to be able to eat for three days, if she was careful. “No reason to go through garbage for something to eat. Doesn’t that cheap bas—Texas Tom give you supper?”
He thought she was going to laugh, but he couldn’t see her face too well now that she’d stepped away from the lantern. He’d caught a glimpse of big blue eyes and a set of lips that were made for—well, just about anything a man could think of, he figured.
“I’m looking for forks,” she said. “And I’m not hungry, thank you.”
“Forks,” he repeated, hoping he sounded sober. He’d gotten a little dizzy a second ago when she’d smiled. “What for?”
“Texas Tom is counting the silverware.” She retied the garbage bag and set it off to one side with two others. “I have to see if any of his precious forks got thrown out before I can go home.”
“Or he’ll dock your pay?”
“Probably.” She reached for another bag and then shook her head. “I’m done. I found two of them.” She pulled them out of her apron pocket to show him. “I guess I’ve done my duty.”
“Maybe some more will turn up in the grass tomorrow,” he said, hoping to be helpful. He wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t be helpful, after all. And the woman was so damn pretty.
“Yes.” She gazed up at him, real friendly and nice. Almost as if she knew him, but Jess didn’t think so. A man would remember her, that he was certain of. “You’re Jess Sheridan, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” So she did know him, or at least knew who he was. Most folks in town did. He went to take off his Stetson, but realized he was bareheaded. Damn. That hat had cost him a bundle six months ago.
