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“Okay,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say.
A small furrow creased her brow. “Are you all right?”
“Never better.”
“You’re such a liar.”
An involuntary smile twitched his lip. “I know.”
She tilted her head, studied him like he was a sad case. “Take care of yourself, Toliver.”
“Same to you, Duvall.” He wished she’d go. Boone didn’t want her watching him limp inside.
He waited until she’d disappeared before he crushed the empty beer can, scooped the bottle of pills off the table and dragged himself into his living room. He dry-swallowed one of the pills and grimaced. He was too antsy to sit, in too much pain to stand and too worried about Jackie to do anything else. He tried calling her again, but she wasn’t answering. He left a voice mail apologizing for what he’d said and asked her to please call him.
He pictured her in Florida, telling her fiancé what a tool her big brother was. Who was Boone to think he had a right to dictate how she should live her life? He had no right, and yet he could not in good conscience let her marry in haste. He’d done it. Lived through the fallout. Didn’t want her to make the same mistake. He had to see her face-to-face. Had to talk to this coastie she seemed hell-bent on marrying.
Things hadn’t been easy for Jackie. Their mother might have stayed with her longer, but that only seemed to have messed with Jackie’s head more. Boone considered himself lucky that he didn’t even remember Miranda.
Jackie, on the other hand, had been ten when Miranda took off, leaving her to be raised by her demanding father. She’d spent her life trying to measure up to Jack Birchard, and she’d told Boone on more than one occasion that the only time she felt truly relaxed were the summers they spent together in Montana at their Aunt Caroline’s lake house. Both of them kept hoping that one day Miranda would show up at her sister’s house, but she never did.
Boone’s dad had married Miranda right out of high school. He told Boone that he couldn’t call the marriage a mistake, because if he hadn’t married her, he wouldn’t have such a wonderful son. Wade Toliver knew how to make a kid feel loved. He’d been a hardworking building contractor who’d scrimped and saved and invested in buying and flipping houses, and then he was smart enough to get out of real estate before the housing bubble hit. With a father like Wade, Boone had barely missed having a mother. His dad had taken him everywhere with him, showing him the ins and outs of home maintenance, teaching him right from wrong.
Yeah. He’d be ashamed of you right now.
Okay. He’d screwed up, but whether his sister knew it or not, Jackie needed his clear-eyed perspective. He had to get to Key West before the wedding and talk some sense into her. He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty on Monday afternoon. That didn’t even give him five days.
His knee felt like it was set in cement. He eased down on the couch. How was he going to get to Key West? During his last surgery, he’d had problems with blood clots, and this time the doctor had told him that under no circumstances was he to fly, and he’d even discouraged long car trips as well. If Boone had to travel by car, he was supposed to stop frequently, get out and move around. But it wasn’t as if he could drive himself all the way to Key West. Hell, he couldn’t even drive himself to the grocery store. Pathetic.
He whipped out his cell phone and did a Google search for the distance from Bozeman to Key West. Twenty-three hundred miles. Approximately a thirty-eight-hour drive, and that wasn’t factoring in any stops.
Dammit. He shoved a hand through the hair that had grown shaggy since he’d left the military.
How was he going to get to Key West? Call a car service? That would cost a frigging fortune. Yes, he had the nest egg his father had left him, but most of that was tied up in investments, and since he hadn’t grown up rich, he was still tight with a dollar.
Which is more important? Money or keeping Jackie from ruining her life?
Jackie. No doubt about it.
He called the only car service in Bozeman and they flat-out told him they wouldn’t drive him to Key West. Now what? Hire someone to drive him? But who?
Too bad he couldn’t find someone to carpool with who was already going to Key W. He could pay for their gas.
Good idea. Great idea, in fact. But where could he find someone from his area headed in that direction ASAP?
Back to the internet.
He’d give it a shot. If he didn’t get a reply by tomorrow morning, he’d try to find someone who could drive him. Pushing himself up off the couch, he lumbered into the spare bedroom that he’d turned into an office. Angling his leg with care, he dropped stiffly into the chair and then booted up his computer.
He placed the ad on a number of sites, figuring it was a long shot. He ate dinner, packed a bag and then spent the rest of the evening fretting about Jackie. He tried calling her numerous times only to discover she’d turned off her voice mail. She was really steamed.
Bullhead. You got yourself into this, you better get yourself out.
He checked for a response to his ads. Nothing. Finally, he went to bed.
Boone woke up at his usual time. Five in the morning. He’d been out of the military for almost nine months, but he couldn’t seem to break the early-rising habit. Routine served him well today. He needed to get a move on if he was going to find a way to Key West by four o’clock on Saturday. Maybe this Scott Everly was the real deal, maybe he wasn’t, but Boone was determined to see for himself firsthand. He hadn’t been able to look after Jackie when they were kids, but he was definitely going to make up for it now.
He had a breakfast of eggs and oatmeal, worked out his upper body with weights, took a shower and then went to the computer with little expectation of a reply. Already he was thumbing through a list of his acquaintances who might be in a position to drive him to Key West. The list was pitifully short.
He opened his email and pop!
There it was. A reply to his ad. Yes. Eagerly, Boone read the message.
I am moving to Miami next week. I can take you that far if your trip can wait until Monday.
Disappointment stiffened his spine. He posted back.
That’s too late. Is there any way you can leave today instead of next week?
He pushed back from the desk, not expecting a quick reply, but the person must have been at his or her computer, because he’d no more than gotten to his feet than his computer pinged, letting Boone know that he had a new message.
Sorry, no, I still have to pack and load my things into a U-Haul. The soonest I could leave would be Thursday afternoon.
Boone did the math. If they left on Thursday afternoon and drove straight through they could arrive in Key West early Saturday morning, but with his knee, there was no way he could ride in the car for thirty-eight hours nonstop. He would have to factor in at least another day. The latest he could leave was Wednesday afternoon. He sat back down and typed.
What if I paid to have someone come pack your things and load the U-Haul today? Could you leave tonight?
Feeling antsy, he hit Send and waited.
Sounds like you have an emergency situation, but Mercury is in retrograde. I try not to travel when Mercury is in retrograde. It messes with travel plans.
Seriously? Was this person for real?
What if I threw in five hundred dollars on top of everything else? Will that overcome your fear of Mercury?
It went against his sense of economy, but this might be the only opportunity he had.
It took a few minutes, but then the reply came.
All right. You have a deal.
Relief had him splaying both palms across the top of his head. Whew.
Done, he wrote. Where do you live?
There was another pause, this time so long that he started worrying. Had he scared off the prospect? Maybe it was a woman leery of driving with a man she didn’t know. He couldn’t blame her. It was smart to be prudent. In this case, honesty was the best policy.
I’m a war vet with a bum knee so I can’t drive myself. My sister is about to make a big mistake, marrying a guy she barely knows, and I need to get to Key West before the wedding to talk some sense into her.
He held his breath. If honesty didn’t work, he was back to square one, and he was running out of time. He stroked a hand over his jaw, drummed his fingers on the desk.
Come on, come on, just say yes.
He thought of Shaina, of how young and dumb they’d been, blundering into marriage without any real knowledge of what it meant to commit to one person fully and completely. Then he thought of Jackie, knowing how easy it was to fool yourself into thinking you were in love when it was nothing more than lust. He could not let her make a mistake this big. He had to get to Key West no matter what he had to do.
His computer pinged and he returned his attention to the screen.
Boone?
He blinked at his name. Who was this?
Yes.
Small world. It’s me. Tara.
2 (#ulink_c5806e1b-f8be-5db1-8893-b20d1df4ecca)
Tuesday, June 30, 1:00 p.m.
BOONE STOOD OFF to one side of Tara’s driveway clothed in an army-green T-shirt and camouflage cargo shorts, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, supervising the movers like a high school principal monitoring the hallways. His brow was knitted in a dark scowl, his right leg encased in a heavy metal brace.
“Hey, Toliver. You oughta get a patent,” Tara teased as she breezed past him, her arms loaded with boxes.
“Patent?” he growled. “For what?”
“That broody frown. James Dean and Marlon Brando combined got nothing on you.”
His glower deepened.
“Yup, watch out, you’re heading for Darth Vadar territory.”
“Darth Vadar wore a mask.”
“Exactly.”
His face relaxed. Just a bit. “Total mystery.”
“What is?” Tara loaded the boxes into the back of the U-Haul, turned and wiped perspiration from her forehead with the back of a hand.
“You.”
She smiled big, pleased.
Boone shook his shaggy head, two months past the point of needing a good haircut. But that was okay. Overgrown hair gave a stylist something to work with. She canted her head and imagined how he’d look in different cuts—slicked-back undercut, Brit-rock indie, men’s quiff. Who was she kidding? He’d probably spoil her fun and insist on a military buzz.
“It’s not a compliment,” he said.
“What are you so prickly about?” She dusted her hands against her back pockets.
“I hate this.” He hissed the last word through clenched teeth.
“What?” She studied him. He was in so much pain—both physical and mental—that it wrenched her heart. But she also knew he had no use for pity. How many times had he rebuffed her when she’d tried to help? Boone was one of those proud protector dudes who thought he was invincible. He hadn’t handled life’s curveball very well. Poor baby.
“Having to stand here and watch you carry boxes when I should be the one doing it.”
“Oh, so you’re responsible for the whole world? Good to know.”
“Not the whole world, just my slice of it.”
“Newsflash, Hercules. I’m not part of your world and I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own boxes.”
“If I were healthy you would not be carrying your own boxes.”
“If you were healthy, I wouldn’t be driving you to Miami. Besides, I’m not some helpless damsel. I know how to take care of myself.”
“You sure know how to wound a man, Duvall.”
“I’m not in the military. You can call me Tara.”
“Okay, then let the men I hired do the heavy lifting…Tara.”
The sarcastic way he muttered her name didn’t get to her. She knew he was a big softy underneath all the gruffness. She’d seen Boone tenderly cradle their neighbor’s new baby when Mrs. Winspree had brought her infant over to show him off. She’d seen him struggle not to shed a tear at his father’s funeral. Had watched him drive his friends away because he was too proud to admit he needed help. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, she was the one person who kept him from disappearing into himself completely, even though he did his best to keep her at arm’s length. What would happen to him once she was gone? Probably turn into a hermit and holler at kids for walking across his lawn.
Tara smiled sweetly and gently bumped Boone with a playful hip as she walked past him on her way to the house for another load of boxes. It was her way of telling him everything was going to be okay, but she wasn’t prepared for the blast of pure heat that shot through her at the contact or the low, throaty masculine sound of alarm that he made in response.
Quickly she sprinted off, her heart bounding erratically. She was in such a rush that she ran headlong into one of the movers. Reflexively, the guy wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Slow down there, sweetcheeks.” The man possessed a chest like a brick wall, a Tom Selleck mustache and a red bandana wrapped around his bald dome. “Is there a fire someone didn’t tell me about?”
“We’re on a tight time schedule,” she said. “Have to get a move on.”
“Let me just check my magic watch.” He pretended to consult an imaginary wristwatch.
“What?”
“It’s telling me that you don’t have any panties on.”
“Yes I do,” she blurted, then belatedly realized it was some stupid pickup line. Duh, how could she be so gullible?
His grin widened and he made a big show of shaking his imaginary wristwatch and holding it up to his ear. “Damn, it must be ten minutes fast.”
Ha-ha. She got it. He was suggesting that in ten minutes he’d have her panties off.
“Dude.” Tara fake chuckled, rolled her eyes and pushed back against his embrace. She was about to tell him he needed a course in how and where to pick up women, but she never got a chance.
Boone was there, clamping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let go of her,” he said in a voice as ruthless as the sound of a .45 Magnum round being chambered.
Instantly, Bandana Head released her, stepped back and raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Chill, man. Just a little harmless flirting. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
