The Cowboy and the Angel

Darn the cowboy. Not only did he worry her…he excited her. When she’d sat across from him in the booth the previous night, every pore in her body had opened wide and absorbed his appearance, his smell, his voice…his sophistication. But it was his gentle brown eyes that caused her the most grief. They begged her to trust him.

A bad, bad idea.

“Go be bored in your own house.” Although a loving smile accompanied the command, Renée believed Bernice used her stubborn independence as a shield against the fear of becoming a burden to her children. “No hot date tonight?” her mother teased.

“I’m thirty-one. Hot dates are for hormonal teenagers.” Duke’s face flashed through her mind and she decided he could easily make her hormonal if he cared to.

“I brought ice cream.” Renée sprang from the couch and gave her mother an impulsive hug, breathing in the almond scent of Jergens lotion before skipping off to the kitchen.

Out of sight, she slumped over the counter and rubbed her fingers against her forehead in rhythmic circles. She hadn’t been able to shake the headache that had chiseled away at her frontal lobe all afternoon. After shoveling Rocky Road into two bowls, she and her mother enjoyed their treat in silence. Bernice finished first. “If you don’t tell me what’s bothering you, I can’t fix it.”

How Renée wished her mother had the power to mend the predicament Renée had gotten herself into. She changed the subject. “Have you agreed to go out to dinner with Mr. Morelli yet?” Mr. Morelli was the self-appointed block warden. The old coot marched along Church Street leaving notes on the front doors of homes in violation of the neighborhood beautification program.

“Roberto’s too young for me,” Bernice sputtered.

“There’s only five years difference between the two of you.” After seventy did age matter?

“He has bad breath.”

“Tell him to try a different denture cream.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “What makes you an expert on men, young lady?”

Touché. Bernice made no bones about the fact that before she strolled up to the pearly gates, she wanted her daughter married with children. With Renée’s nonexistent dating life, the likelihood of fulfilling her mother’s wish was equally nonexistent.

“What about that nice young man Rich introduced you to a month ago?”

Disaster. Renée had warned Rich that she didn’t care to date cops. She loved her brother and supported his choice of careers, but marry a police officer? No way. She fretted enough over the children under her care. She didn’t need the added angst of worrying that her husband might not live through his next shift. “Ben and I didn’t click.” No sense stating the particulars—like Ben had a potty mouth and a habit of denigrating the women who worked the street corners in Detroit’s less reputable neighborhoods. Or that Ben had been married before—twice. Renée wasn’t interested in becoming strike number three.

“Rich says he’s a good cop,” Bernice persisted.

Time to fess up before her mother recited a list of eligible men from church or the nephews and grandsons of her Bunco friends. “I met a man. His name is Duke Dalton.”

“Duke…? Is he from England?” Her mother chuckled at her own joke.

“I don’t believe there are any members of the royal family living in Oklahoma. Duke moved here from Tulsa.”

“An Okie.”

“What do you know about Okies?”

“Dated one when I was a young gal.”

Renée snapped her fingers. “I forgot your parents were migrant workers in Oklahoma before moving to Detroit.”

“Daddy sure was excited to build cars. Life was good once he started putting on bumpers.” Life had been better than good for many in Detroit before the downturn in the automotive industry.

“Duke owns a software company and he intends to knock down one of the warehouses along the Riverfront and erect a new building in its place.” If Renée confessed the truth about why the warehouse needed to remain intact, her mother would volunteer to help and Bernice was too old to foster children anymore. “I can’t go into detail, but I asked Duke to hold off demolishing the building for a week and he refused.”

The knitting needles froze. “You’re up to no good, aren’t you, young lady?”

Even though Renée had the best of intentions, she had a history of becoming involved in situations that usually caused problems for her boss. She wiggled a finger into the tear in the couch cushion and protested, “Not at all.”

“Then use your God-given gift to change his mind.” Her mother believed all her daughter had to do was flash her dimples and others would gladly do her bidding.

“I tried,” Renée muttered.

“And?”

“And he won’t budge.”

Bernice’s expression softened. “Then you best leave well enough alone.”

Not the advice Renée had hoped for.

Saved by the ringing doorbell, Renée bolted from the couch, pressed an eye to the peephole, then swallowed a groan and opened the door. “Hey, Rich.”

The yellow glow of the porch light bounced off her brother’s russet-colored hair, sparking a fireball above his head. Renée grinned. “It’s Saturday night. Don’t you have a date?” Like Officer Ben, her brother was divorced with no kids and always on the hunt for the next Ms. Perfect.

“Brat,” he muttered, tugging a strand of her hair as he brushed past her into the room. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hello, son.” The needles clicked faster. Bernice was becoming agitated at having her quiet evening disturbed. “Imagine that, a visit from both children in one night.”

Rich caught Renée’s eye and nodded toward the kitchen.

“In the mood for ice cream?” Renée asked.

“Sure.” He followed her out of the room.

“What’s up?” she whispered, understanding full well why her brother had dropped in.

When she reached for an ice-cream bowl, Rich caught her wrist. “No, thanks.” Her brother had been dieting since his fiftieth birthday, hoping to lose the extra ten pounds he’d put on over the years.

“What the hell were you thinking standing in front of that crane yesterday?”

“I was thinking I didn’t want the building demolished.”

“First, you asked me and Pete to increase our drive-bys along the Riverfront, then I discover you’re interfering with a construction crew. What kind of trouble are you stirring up?”

He breathed deeply through his nose—a sign he was about to blow his lid. “Your nostrils are flaring,” she teased.

“This isn’t funny, especially if you’re breaking the law.”

“It’s always about the law with you, isn’t it?”

He scowled.

“I can’t tell you, Rich. Not yet anyway. Promise you’ll maintain your patrols a little while longer.”