In Name Only. Peggy Moreland
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down in a booth near the front door, placing his cowboy hat crown side up on the seat beside him.
He flipped open the menu and studied it, wishing Pete and Clayton, his traveling buddies, were with him. He hated like hell eating alone. But Pete was still at Clayton’s ranch, keeping an eye on things, while Clayton chased after his wife in hopes of talking her out of leaving him. Personally, he hoped Clayton was successful. He liked Rena, though he wondered sometimes why she’d put up with Clayton’s indifference for so long.
“What can I get you, cowboy?”
Troy looked up and found a waitress standing beside the booth, the stubbed point of her pencil poised over a pad. He offered her an easy smile. “What would you recommend?”
She tucked the pencil behind her ear and shifted her weight, lifting a foot to rub it along the back of a calf that he was sure was aching after a long day waiting tables. “Meat loaf’s fresh and it comes with a side of green beans, mashed potatoes and a square of cornbread. Six-fifty, or seven dollars if you order a drink.”
Troy closed his menu and handed it to her. “Sounds good to me. And I’d like a cup of coffee, when you have the time.”
“Sure thing.” Dropping the pad into her apron pocket, she headed for the counter.
Troy turned his face toward the window and stared out at the highway, watching the occasional eighteen-wheeler roar by. Superimposed on the glass was a reflection of the café’s interior. In it he saw the waitress snag a pot of coffee from the warming plate and head back his way. Turning, he reared back to give her room as she upended a porcelain mug.
“Did you compete in the rodeo tonight?” she asked as she filled his cup.
“Yes, ma’am, I did.”
Straightening, she rested the pot of coffee on the edge of the table and looked at him suspiciously. “You a bull rider?”
Troy chuckled and shook his head. “No, ma’am. There’s not enough money in the world to persuade me to climb on the back of some rank bull.”
She returned his smile, revealing a gold-capped front tooth. “I didn’t think so. The bull riders who pass through here are a cocky bunch. And they sure as heck don’t have your manners,” she added wryly.
Troy tossed back his head and laughed. “You can thank my grandmother for the manners. She pounded them into me from an early age.”
She shifted her weight from one crepe-soled shoe to the other. “If you’re not a bull rider, then what are you?”
“A steer wrestler.”
She arched a brow. “Really? I’d think steer wrestling would be as dangerous as bull riding.”
With the long stretch of loneliness that awaited him on the drive ahead, Troy was glad for the company. Settling in for a visit, he wrapped his hands around the mug, absorbing its warmth, and lifted a shoulder. “Not to my way of thinking. If a man’s got a good horse and a good hazer, he narrows the odds some in his favor.”
A shiver shook her thin shoulders beneath a uniform about a size too big for her bony frame. “I can’t imagine jumping off a running horse and wrestling a horned steer to the ground. I’d be afraid one of those horns would run straight through me.”
Troy chuckled. “It happens, now and again, but not as often as a bull turning on a rider he’s thrown and goring him.”
When a bell pinged impatiently, the waitress glanced over her shoulder and saw the truck drivers waiting beside the cash register. She offered Troy an apologetic smile as she tipped her head toward the counter. “Duty calls. I’ll get your order out to you quick as I can.”
“No hurry, ma’am.”
She winked and gave his hand a motherly pat. “The next time you see your grandmother you tell her she did a fine job raising you.”
Troy watched the waitress hustle over to the cash register, sobered by the reminder of his grandmother. Then, with a sigh, he turned his gaze back to the window. Yeah, he’d tell Granny all right, he thought sadly. But he doubted his grandmother would even recognize him, much less understand the compliment enough to appreciate it. Alzheimer’s had stolen a mind that had remained sharp for more than seventy years, and overnight had turned his grandmother into a stranger to him. He always came away from the nursing home where she now lived, wondering how life could be so cruel to a woman with a heart as big as hers. She’d worked hard all her life, and when she should’ve been enjoying her golden years, she’d taken in Troy to raise after his mother had died.
He caught a movement on the window’s reflection and saw that the waitress was heading back his way, juggling his dinner. Shaking off the melancholy thoughts of his grandmother, he leaned back and forced a grateful smile for the waitress as she slid the plate and basket of cornbread in front of him. “Thanks.”
“Can I get you anything else?”
He glanced at the generous helpings on the plate. “No, ma’am. This’ll be fine for now.”
As she went back to her duties, Troy unwrapped his silverware, shook out his napkin and spread it over his thigh. His mouth watering at the tempting scents that rose to meet his nose, he lifted the fork and dug in.
He’d cleaned about half his plate when he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He glanced over and caught the woman in the booth on the opposite side of the room staring at him again. Her expression was an odd mixture of appraisal and desperation, which he found a bit unnerving. But damn she was a pretty little thing. All soft and feminine and innocent, much like the angels he remembered pictured in the family Bible his grandmother kept on the coffee table in the front room of the home they’d once shared.
Baffled by the intensity with which she was studying him, he dabbed the napkin at the corner of his mouth, wondering if he had food on his face or something. He nodded a quick, embarrassed greeting, then turned his attention back to his meal.
He hadn’t taken more than two bites when a shadow fell across his plate. He looked up and found the woman standing beside his booth. She was even prettier up close, but she had a scared-rabbit look about her that concerned him.
“I apologize for interrupting your dinner,” she said, her fingers clutched tightly around the strap of a shoulder purse, “but would you mind if I join you for a minute?”
Her voice was as sweet as her face, but there was a quaver in it that confirmed his suspicion that something was bothering her.
He rose and gestured to the bench opposite him. “No, ma’am, I sure don’t. In fact, I’d welcome the company.”
She slipped into the booth and waited for him to take his seat again. Once he had, she stretched a hand across the table. “I’m Shelby Cannon.”
He wiped his palm down his thigh before taking her hand in his. Small. Delicately boned. His own work-roughened hand swallowed her smaller one. “Troy Jacobs,” he returned. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Her eyes sharpened when his fingers closed around hers, and he couldn’t help wondering if she felt the same kick to the system as he had when their palms first met.
Slowly she withdrew her hand, then fisted it with the other on her lap. “Mr. Jacobs—”
“Troy,” he insisted, and smiled, hoping to put her at ease.
She inhaled deeply. “Troy, then,” she said, and forced a polite, if tremulous, smile in return. “I know this may seem presumptuous of me to approach you in this way, but I’m running short of time and forced to be blunt.” She drew in another deep breath, then leaned toward him, leveling her gaze on his. “Are you married?”
The question came out of left field, catching him totally off guard. He wondered if she was planning on trying to pick him up, though she certainly didn’t look the type. “No ma’am,” he replied cautiously.
Her