When Snow Falls

“So Anita’s hanging on.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Joe!” The surprise and reproof in his father’s voice demanded an explanation, if not a retraction.

“It doesn’t sound good to say it,” Joe admitted. “But Cheyenne and her sister would be better off.”

The stove ticked until a burner lit with the soft, distinctive poof of gas. Sure enough, Martin was putting some peas on to boil.

“Since when have you become so interested in the Christensen girls?” his father asked.

“I’m not,” Joe replied, but that wasn’t entirely true. Presley had never appealed to him. Physically, she was okay, even with all those tattoos. But she had a mouth more suited to a sailor and eyes that gazed out on the world with bitterness and suspicion. If there’d been a few warning signs he’d overlooked with Suzie, Presley came with neon flashers.

But there’d always been something about Cheyenne. His eyes followed her whenever they passed on the street. He couldn’t help turning around to catch a second glimpse of her when she came into the station. And this morning…he’d felt so protective when those tears welled up.

“Glad to hear it,” his father said. “Eve would be a much better bet.”

Joe propped his elbows on his knees. “What’s wrong with Cheyenne?”

“She’s had a hard life. If anyone has the right to carry excess baggage, it would be her. Just look at her sister.”

The way his father automatically dismissed Cheyenne bothered Joe. “She’s done well, considering what she’s been through. Like you said, it’s Presley who’s out of control. She propositioned me at the Sexy Sadie Saloon a few weeks ago.”

“How does a woman do that these days?”

“She said for twenty bucks she’d take me in the girls’ restroom and ‘blow my mind.’”

“I take it you declined.”

“I did—and that didn’t embarrass her in the slightest. She told me to go to hell and started scanning the bar for her next mark.”

“See what I mean?”

“Presley isn’t Chey,” Joe argued.

“Doesn’t matter. You marry the girl, you marry the family.”

He understood that concept only too well. But he was feeling contrary enough that his father’s disapproval pushed him further into Cheyenne’s camp. “It wouldn’t hurt to befriend her.”

“You’ve never paid much attention to her before.”

“She belongs to Gail’s group. And I’ve been busy.”

His father motioned at the clock. “You’re not busy tonight. Maybe after dinner you should take a bottle of wine and head over there.”

“Maybe I will.”

“She could probably use some company.”

“No doubt,” he said, rising to the challenge. But once he caught sight of his father’s grin, he realized that Martin had been manipulating him the whole time. “You think you’re so clever,” he complained.

“It’s not hard to lead someone right where they want to go,” he said with a laugh. Then he nearly drove Joe crazy whistling as he finished making dinner.

* * *

No one ever came to the house, unless it was one of J. T. Amos’s sons, looking for Presley. Sometimes Presley partied with them down at their place, which was a rambler along the river half a mile away. Since it was nearly eight o’clock on a Saturday night, Cheyenne felt confident it had to be one of them—confident enough that she wasn’t the least concerned about her appearance. She’d already scrubbed her face so she wasn’t wearing any makeup. She wasn’t wearing shoes, either—just a pair of holey jeans with a sweatshirt. She’d stand behind the door, tell Dylan, Aaron, Grady, Rodney or Mack that Presley was out for the evening, and be done with it.

But it wasn’t the Fearsome Five, as they were often called. Cheyenne couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw Joe standing on her rickety porch. She hadn’t even realized he knew where she lived.

“Hey.” He offered her a grin that made her stomach flip-flop. “Looks like you’re in for the night.”

She resisted the urge to raise a self-conscious hand to her messy bun. Did her hair look as bad as she thought it might? She could feel wet tendrils clinging to her face. “Yes. I, um, I’m not planning on going anywhere. I mean, I can’t. Presley’s out. I have to stay with my mother.”

“That’s what I figured.” He lifted the bottle he carried in one hand. “Would you like to have a drink with me while you do your caretaker thing?”

She blinked several times before finding her voice. “Did you come to talk about Eve?”

“Eve?” he repeated.

“She’s crazy about you, you know. I’m sure you’ve guessed what with all the trips we’ve made to the gas station.” She laughed, hoping to appear less off balance. “And…she’s so great. You wouldn’t want to lose out on someone like her.”

A strange expression flitted across his face. “Thanks for the encouragement. I think she’s nice, too. But I’m not here to talk about Eve.”

He didn’t indicate whether or not her words had surprised him. Of course they hadn’t. He couldn’t have missed the way Eve kept singling him out. She wasn’t nearly as good at hiding her feelings as Cheyenne was. She’d never had to hide anything because she’d never really feared anything. Besides, she’d asked him out. That made her interest quite obvious.

“Is this about…earlier, then? This morning? Because I’m okay.” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean to make you feel sorry for me. Again. That’s sort of the history of our relationship, isn’t it?” She managed a self-deprecating chuckle, but he didn’t join in.

“I feel bad about what you’re going through. That’s not the same as pity.” He lowered his voice as if confiding a great secret. “Having a drink with me isn’t any sort of betrayal, Chey.”

This was the first time he’d ever called her by the shortened version of her name but it seemed natural. No doubt he’d often heard Gail refer to her that way. “Right. Of course it isn’t. I didn’t mean to suggest it would be.”

“So…can I come in?”

She thought of her Charlie Brown Christmas tree. She’d taken all her good ornaments over to the inn—what few she owned. Would he find her place as pathetic as he did her situation?

Maybe. But she couldn’t be so rude as to turn him away. He meant too much to her. And the fact that he was seeing Eve shouldn’t stop them from being friends. He’d made that point already.

With a nod, she stepped aside and allowed him to enter. As he did, she breathed in the outdoorsy scent that clung to him. Normally, she could smell oil and gas from the station, too. But not tonight. He was freshly showered and wearing a sweater, jeans and boots, unlaced enough to make them comfortable and fashionable. He didn’t have the style her friend Baxter did—no one in Whiskey Creek had the style Baxter did—but Cheyenne liked the way Joe dressed. She liked everything about him.

That was the problem.

“Have a seat.” She gestured at the kitchen table. She was afraid he’d choose the spot with a hole under the cushion if she directed him to the couch. She hadn’t invested much money in household furnishings or the house itself. There didn’t seem to be any reason to. It was just a rental. She didn’t plan on staying after Anita died; she wasn’t even sure what she and Presley would bring with them when they moved. Presley might insist on keeping a few things, but as far as Cheyenne was concerned, there were too many bad memories attached to all of it.

She put a couple of cheap wineglasses on the table. “Go ahead and pour. I’ll be right back.”

After checking on her mother, who was—thank God—asleep, she put on a bra and returned to find Joe holding a glass of wine while standing in front of the Christmas tree.

“The one at The Gold Nugget is a lot prettier,” she said. “I promise.”