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And his brother Jarred had gone one better. “Just be nice to her. And make sure she eats, too.”
When he was small, he’d never really understood what was wrong. By the time they were in fourth grade, he’d had a real good idea of what went on in that house. And then, just when he was thinking that he needed to do something about her situation, his dad struck oil.
They’d moved into their current big house. Months later, Jolene had moved away when her daddy couldn’t pay his bills.
He hadn’t seen her in ages until he’d spied her working at Bronco Bob’s. He’d hugged her tight and kissed her cheek when he figured out who she was.
After that, it was only natural to share a beer. And a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s. Next thing he knew, their talking led to his truck, which led to her apartment, which led to them getting stark naked and rolling around on the floor for a while.
Hours later, when the taste of Jack had turned sour in his mouth and the reality of what they’d done had hit him hard, he’d been embarrassed.
She’d been quiet.
He’d pulled on his jeans and had left in a hurry. Promised to call.
But he’d been lying, of course. No matter what city or two-bit town he was in, he didn’t call after rolls in the sack. It wasn’t his way.
So when she started calling him, he figured it would be best to ignore those calls. After all, he wasn’t in love. And, well, he was “Trent Riddell” now. That name meant something. He was rich and he was famous.
He did not need some blonde from his past bringing him down.
But that didn’t stop the moments on the tour bus or in his hotel room when he’d remember how sweet kissing Jolene had been. How her eyes had turned all sparkly when they’d reminisced about tromping through the fields back when they were small.
Luckily, it had only taken a couple of hours to not care anymore. Because even though Jolene Arnold had once been his friend and had even for a few hours been his lover … she sure as hell didn’t mean all that much to him now.
Really, she was just a memory.
Chapter Two
“Trent? Trent, you home?” Ginny called out as she let the back door slam behind her.
Trent was just about to answer when another voice rang through the house. “Virginia Anne, I swear, you’re going to be the death of me,” their father bellowed seconds later. “Trent Wallace?”
Trent scrambled to his feet and started toward the kitchen. Honestly, what was it with everyone calling him by his full name today? “Sir?” he asked.
“Look at your sister.”
Dutifully, Trent looked. And then looked again. “Ginny, you’re covered in mud.”
His father cussed, “No shit, Sherlock.”
To Trent’s astonishment, Ginny didn’t even flinch. If anything, she looked about ready to roll out her own list of profanities.
“What happened?” Walking forward, he stuck out his right hand—the one not contained in a brace—and lifted her chin. “Is that a black eye?”
“Uh-huh. But Peter’s got one, too.”
Trent couldn’t care less what some little pip-squeak was sporting. “A boy’s been beating up on you? Dad, who’s Peter?”
But instead of looking worried, Cal Sr. just looked peeved. “Peter is the poor boy who’s become Ginny’s object of affection. She’s been torturing him something awful.” With a grimace, he pulled a pink note out of his back pocket. “Look at this.”
Trent took the paper and scanned it. As he read it again, some of the terrible rage slipped away, only to be replaced by shock and awe. “Ginny’s about to be suspended?”
“Worse than that. She’s about to be kicked out of school for good.”
Turning to her, he raised his eyebrows. “Virginia Anne, what the heck?”
But instead of looking cowed, she stuck up her chin. “It ain’t my fault, Trent.” When he continued to glare, she finally had the sense to lower her chin and the attitude. “Not all my fault, anyways.”
“Not all your fault?”
“Peter deserved it. Some.”
His sister had turned into some sort of itty-bitty bully. “Dad, what have y’all been doing with her? She needs some discipline.”
“Oh, what in the Sam Hill haven’t we been doing?” his dad retorted. “This is an ongoing thing, son. Your brothers and I have been doing the best we can with her. It’s just a challenge, that’s all.”
“Can I go to my room now?” Ginny asked. “I want to go take a bath.”
“Sure, honey. I’ll be in to talk to you soon,” their dad said wearily. When the room was empty, his dad leaned up against the wall and shook his head. “I never thought I’d say this, but I would have preferred five more boys than this one six-year-old girl. She’s going to be the death of me.”
When they were alone, Trent suddenly felt a whole lot less than six feet tall. “Guess I’ve been a little out of touch, huh? I had no idea y’all were struggling with her so much.”
“Don’t feel bad. You can’t help that you weren’t here. You’ve been on the circuit.”
“Since I’m here now I’ll start trying to do more.”
“That’s real good of you, son.” He paused. “I better go make sure she actually got in the bathtub. And think of something to say to that girl.”
Two things occurred to Trent. One, his father didn’t expect him to follow through. And, even if he did follow through, his dad didn’t think he’d be any good. “I’ll go talk to her.”
His dad paused on his way out the door. “Sure you’re ready for that?”
“‘Course. You go relax, now.” He turned and walked upstairs to her room before he changed his mind. After ascertaining that she was in the bath, he told her to holler when she got out.
Fifteen minutes later, he was inside a room covered with enough pink, purple and horses that he felt as though he was living in the middle of some Barbie Dream House.
From the top of her comforter, his sweet-smelling sister watched him approach. “You mad at me, Trent?”
That made him pause. Was he? “I don’t rightly know.”
Obviously puzzled, she scrambled to a sitting position. “How come?”
“Well, your black eye for one. I hate to see my best girl hurt like you are.”
“I’m not your best girl.”
“And why’s that?”
“You’re never home.”
Ouch. “My work takes me around the country, sister. I can’t help that. And you watch that tone of voice with me, too. I may be a rookie at dealing with little girl fights, but I’m no pushover.”
“I guess you’re not.”
Crossing the room, he sat next to her. “Here’s what I don’t get. How come you fight so much?”
Her eyes widened. “No one’s ever asked me that before. They just told me to stop.”
“You got an answer?”
“Maybe.” When he crossed his arms over his chest, she eyed him carefully, then spoke. “Some days I’m just mad at everyone.”
“And why’s that?”
She lowered her voice. “Promise you won’t get mad?”
He was probably a fool to promise such a thing, but he nodded.
“I get mad ‘cause I don’t have a mommy.” Her voice turning stronger, she added, “And she didn’t die and go to heaven like yours did. She took off ‘cause she didn’t want me.”
If a bull had gone and kicked him in the head, Trent couldn’t have been more winded. Valiantly, he tried to imagine what Jarred would say to that. Or Junior. Junior always had the right words.
But it was just him sitting there.
“I know,” he finally said, and that was the truth. Carolyn, Cal Sr.’s second wife, might have hated their father, but she left her daughter without even a second look back.
Warily, he glanced at Ginny, half sure he’d just broken her heart. But instead of looking surprised, her eyes were a little wider—and trust was lingering there.
That suddenly made him a whole lot braver.
“Ginny, here’s the deal. It’s real sad that your momma took off. I don’t know why she did, and maybe we’ll never know. But growing up and being a good person means that you make do with what you have. And you have a whole lot more than most.”
She blinked. “‘Cause we live in a fancy house?”
“Nope. Fancy houses don’t count for much at the end of the day. What counts are having people who love you. You’ve got a lot of those.”
“Daddy and Jarred and Junior?”
“And me. And Serena and Susan and Gwen.” He leaned back a little so he could look into her eyes. “You hear what I’m saying?”
“I guess so.”
“Good. Now listen to this. You need to stop making everyone try so hard to do right by you. Next time you want to hit someone, you flat out got to make yourself stop. You hear me? What you’re doing is mean and bad and you’re making us all ashamed.”
“But—”
“Ginny Riddell, Riddells don’t hit. They don’t go out of their way to be mean to folks. They try and listen. You’re one of us, and I, for one, think it’s about time you acted like it.”
“And if I don’t?”
Shoot. “And if you don’t, I’m going to tell Santa Claus to not even think about bringing anything for Ginny Riddell when he stops by this year.”
Her mouth turned into a sweet little O. “You’d do that?”
“I certainly would. And I’d do it in a heartbeat, too.” Finally tears welled in her eyes. “I’ll try to be better, Trent.”
Though he wanted to cuddle her close, he knew all about wheedling ways. “Not good enough. You tell me that you’re going to do better. That you will do better. Will you?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be nicer and stop making everyone ashamed of you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Opening his arms, he beckoned her closer.
“Now come over here and give me a hug, ‘cause I love you.”
“I love you, too, Trent.”
With his arms wrapped around this little girl, for the first time in a long while, he felt proud of himself.
Chapter Three
In a perfect world, Jolene would’ve put on a nice pair of slacks and a neat, prim twin set for her big meeting with Trent. Sweet little hoops would have graced her ears. Her hair would have been flat-ironed and pretty, and she would have worn sensible shoes.
Most people would have been shocked to know that Jolene Arnold even knew about such things. But the truth was, she would’ve had no problem dressing up like something out of the latest J. C. Penney catalog. Well, she wouldn’t if she’d had the extra money or temperament for such things.
Because the truth of the matter was that more often than not, she dreamed of being that girl.
That girl, that nice girl. The gal men took home to their mothers, not their beds. The one men dressed up for, took chew out of their cheeks for. The kind of woman where they watched their cussing and remembered their manners. The kind of person people showed up on time for.
But, as she looked in the mirror, Jolene figured that train had up and went sometime during the past decade. Truth was, her dreams of being the next June Cleaver had evaporated years before she’d even known who old June was.
Now all she had was a closet of sexy bar clothes and a Visa bill with baby items on it. So, she did the best she could with what she had. Looking in the mirror, she had to admit things could be worse.
On top, she had on a red Christmas sweater—the only one she had that wasn’t cut low or was too tight. And on her bottom half, she was wearing one of her two pairs of slacks. The gray fabric didn’t do a thing for her coloring, but the slacks were wool, not too worn, and almost loose. Boots were on her feet, because those were the best—and warmest—shoes she had.
And, of course, she had a baby on her hip.
As she looked at her reflection, she shrugged. Well, she wasn’t exactly the cover girl for Working Mother Magazine.
But she could look worse. Maybe even Trent would start thinking she looked respectable.
Yeah, right.
Trent Riddell was going to take one look at her and ask what in the devil was she doing, standing on his doorstep.
