Cupid, Texas [1] Love at First Sight Page 3

  “It must have been excruciating, but the body,” he’d said, sounding amazed, “can do miraculous things under extreme stress.”

  Her parents had died on that mountain, leaving Natalie and Zoey orphaned, but not unwanted. Their loving grandparents and a bevy of aunts and uncles had raised them, but Natalie never forgot her solemn vow to her dying mother. She would always look after Zoey.

  Natalie’s leg twinged at the memory and she ran a hand down her thigh. That day had marked her forever, set her life in cement. She was ingrained in Cupid, Texas. There was no getting out, no escape, even if she wanted to, but she knew who she was and she accepted it, although once in a while a travel poster had the power to make her yearn for the impossible.

  Putting the past firmly in the past, she got on her bike and rode home.

  The McCleary mansion was in the older part of town on Stone Street, where the yards were massive, the fences white picket, and the live oaks stately. A decade earlier, when Cupid had rezoned Stone Street from residential to commercial, many of the grand homes that fronted Lake Cupid had been turned into businesses. Junie Mae had morphed Farnsworth House into a hair salon and spa. The old Van Zandt place became a chiropractor’s office. The Harris manor was now a tourist information center, and Natalie had converted her house into a bed-and-breakfast.

  Transforming the McCleary ancestral home had been an act of necessity. While Natalie came from a long line of well-to-do McClearys, her father, she’d discovered when she’d been old enough to understand, had been something of a spendthrift, and he’d died owing more than a million dollars. There’d been life insurance policies on her parents, of course, but by the time Natalie was twenty, most of the monies had been exhausted and the only asset she had left was the house.

  Tourists frequented Cupid, drawn by the romantic legend, the vineyards, the caverns, the mineral springs, the game fishing in Lake Cupid, and MacDonald Observatory, which offered some of the darkest night skies in the United States.

  Natalie figured, why not give the tourists a place to stay? Armed with an interest-free loan from her grandmother Rose and advice from practically everyone in town, Natalie had hired a cook, a housekeeper, and a gardener and set about becoming a businesswoman.

  For seven years, her business had thrived and she’d thrown herself into being the best hostess she could be; her B&B even garnered a starred review from Texas Monthly.

  Then the corporations had sniffed out Cupid and everything changed. Hilton bought up land on the other side of the lake and erected a posh four-star resort hotel. Halfway between Cupid and the mineral springs, a developer built lavish vacation condos. The twin projects had siphoned off seventy percent of Natalie’s revenue.

  Unskilled at anything else, she’d had little option but to take in long-term boarders. While she kept her three best rooms for tourists, sometimes she felt like she was running more of a halfway house or an assisted living facility than anything else.

  She came in through the back entrance of the mansion that was a bastard combination of Greek Revival and Southern Plantation. The house needed a new paint job, but it would cost over two thousand dollars and she just didn’t have the spare cash right now.

  Soon, she promised herself as the screen door snapped closed behind her.

  Oh good, Zoey was in the breakfast nook adjacent to the kitchen, eating a bowl of Cap’n Crunch while she leaned over Lars Bakke’s shoulder as he worked the Sunday crossword puzzle from the Alpine Gazette. The B&B guests took their meals in the formal dining room where breakfast was served buffet style, but the long-term boarders ate where the family did.

  “Eleven-letter word for bogus,” Lars said, tapping his pencil against his chin.

  “Counterfeit,” Zoey supplied.

  “Smart girl.” Lars painstakingly filled in the crossword grid, gripping his pencil so low on the shaft that his fingers encircled the lead.

  Zoey wore pink short shorts, a pink and white halter top, and white woven sandals that looked familiar. Her straight, chestnut-colored hair was cut in a striking asymmetrical style that looked cute on her, but would have made Natalie’s thick, wavy hair look like a drunkard had attacked her with pruning shears.

  “You’re awake,” Natalie said to Zoey.

  “Don’t make it sound like it’s such a miracle. I’ve got a ten o’clock class.”

  “I’m surprised you remembered.”

  “Have you ever had your blood type checked?” Zoey asked.

  Natalie blinked. Her sister had such a mercurial mind it was sometimes hard to follow her train of thought. “What?”

  “We’re checking our blood type in class today.”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve ever had my blood type checked.”

  “They probably checked it when you had surgery.”

  Natalie shrugged. “Maybe. No one told me.”

  “I’m betting your blood type is sour apple.” Zoey loved odd comparisons.

  “Oh, I get it. Not a serious question, but rather a sarcastic dig at me.”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to lighten up once in a while.” Zoey straightened, polished off her last bite of cereal, and left her empty bowl on the table.

  Natalie crossed her arms, stared at the bowl, and then shifted her gaze back to Zoey.

  “Okay, all right, I’ll take it to the kitchen.” Zoey carried off the bowl.

  Lars set down his paper, cocked his gray head, his reading glasses dangling low on his nose. “Are you all right, Natty?”

  Lars was Natalie’s oldest long-term boarder. He was from Norway and had once commanded a tramp steamer. He was in his late sixties, retired from the Department of Motor Vehicles, stood six-foot-five, loved quoting Eric Hoffer, and smelled persistently of pine. Every year his daughter sent him lutefisk for Christmas, and afterward, no one would go near him for a week. How he’d ended up in this arid part of Texas, so far from the sea, was one of the great mysteries of Cupid, although rumor had it that a broken heart had brought him here.

  Natalie forced a smile. “Yes, sure, why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You look . . .” He paused, and his blue eyes grew pensive. “Like something happened.”

  “Nothing happened.” That is unless you counted falling in love at first sight. C’mon. Get over that. She had not fallen in love at first sight. It had been startling sexual chemistry, plain and simple. Really? All these years she’d longed to fall in love and now that it appeared to be happening, she was backpedaling faster than a politician caught sexting.

  “Moonstruck,” Lars said. His perceptiveness unnerved her. Could he really see it on her? Was it that noticeable?

  “The sun’s out. No moon to be struck by.” Natalie jammed her hands in her pockets, fingered Shot Through the Heart’s letter. If she was anything, she was lust struck. But she wasn’t even that. Not really. She would never see half-naked biker dude again. He was passing through and she was forever rooted in Cupid.

  “Did you meet someone?” Zoey asked, coming back into the room with a sly smile on her face.

  “No.” It was true. She hadn’t actually met the guy, but dammit, her cheeks heated.

  “We lie the loudest when we lie to ourselves.” Lars dished up a Hofferism.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Have you got a secret boyfriend?” Zoey cocked her head, looked intrigued.

  “Are those my Brian Atwoods?” Natalie asked, trying to derail her.

  Zoey put one foot behind her as if she could hide her feet. “You can’t wear them.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It’s just plain weird that you buy designer shoes when you can’t wear them.”

  Natalie hardened her jaw. She knew it was foolish to buy shoes she would never wear. She couldn’t explain why she did it. Owning them made her feel . . . well . . . normal. Other women got to own beautiful shoes. Why not her?

  “What’s the use of letting them go to waste?” Zoey argued.

  “You should h
ave asked my permission.”

  “Ha! Like you would have said yes.”

  Natalie sank her hands on her hips. “So you just take them?”

  “A man is likely to mind his own business when it is worth minding. When it is not, he takes his mind off his own meaningless affairs by minding other people’s business,” Lars said.

  Natalie raised an eyebrow. “More Hoffer?”

  “I met him once, you know,” Lars mused, pocketing his reading glasses and getting to his feet. “In a Greenwich Village coffee shop. Fittingly enough, it was called Destiny. Destiny’s Coffee Shop. It had flamingo pink and black checkered tile floors. I was young and Hoffer was old but we clicked instantly. Magnificent man.”

  “How’s the boat coming?” she asked to sidetrack him from more talk of Hoffer. Lars was having a handcrafted sailboat built in Mexico, in hopes of living out his dream of sailing around the world before he died.

  He shook his head, looked so baleful that she wished she hadn’t brought it up. “On hold for now until I can come up with another installment payment.”

  “How are you going to get the money?”

  “I have a couple of schemes up my sleeve.”

  At that moment, Pearl popped out of the kitchen, the smell of yeast bread, bacon, and French roast popping with her. She wore a V-neck tank top that was two sizes too small for her 44 DDD chest, green Bermuda shorts, and a camo-colored bandana wrapped around her short, spiky, gray hair. Her feet were shod in brown Doc Martens with black ankle socks, and deep, purple-blue veins bulged at her shins from a lifetime of standing at stoves.

  Natalie had no idea how old she was. Pearl could have been anywhere from a hard forty to a light sixty. Someone told her once that they’d heard Pearl had spent time in Gatesville prison, but Natalie didn’t put stock in gossip, and besides, other than her crotchety attitude, Pearl was a model employee.

  “You order that flour yet?” Pearl grunted. “I can’t make a decent multigrain pâte à choux without it.” The way she said the French word sounded like a sneeze.

  “Not yet.”

  “If I don’t have that flour in time for the Fourth of July weekend, I’m quittin’,” she grumbled, and waved a red rubber KitchenAid spatula for effect. Pearl was the most cantankerous woman she’d ever met, but she was also the best cook in Cupid. “And I mean it this time.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday.” Pearl glowered.

  “You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means he uses to frighten you,” quoted Lars.

  “You want me to take them off?” Zoey interrupted, reaching down to unbuckle a sandal. “ ’Cause I’ll take ’em off if that’s what you want.”

  In the back of her mind, Natalie heard a deep-voiced male narrator say, Natalie McCleary, this is your life. It was small-minded of her to get pissy over the shoes. Someone might as well get some use out of them. “No, go, wear them in good health.”

  “Thanks.” Zoey picked up her anatomy textbook from the table and headed out the door. “You’re not such a bad big sister.”

  Pearl took her red spatula and went back to the kitchen, while Lars said something about taking his constitutional along the river and slipped out the back door.

  From the other side of the wall came the sound of guests entering the formal dining room. Natalie went to greet her visitors—which included two older women traveling together, a young newlywed couple, and a middle-aged gentleman who said he was writing a book about the Marfa Lights.

  The nearby town of Marfa was famous for inexplicable “ghost” lights that appeared in the night sky and defied scientific explanation. It was something of a curiosity. Several movies had been filmed in Marfa, including Giant with Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor. Natalie’s great-aunt Delia had gotten the movie stars’ autographs and they were framed and displayed on the wall in her foyer.

  Natalie shook hands, made pleasantries, and suggested outings to the guests. Welcoming people to Cupid was her favorite part of the job.

  “So,” said the female half of the young married couple. She was a trim blonde with a pert upturned nose dotted with freckles, and earnest brown eyes. “Tell us the story of how the town of Cupid got its name. I heard it involves a romantic legend.”

  The young woman threw a besotted look at her husband as they filled their plates from the chafing dishes on the buffet. He responded by filching a piece of bacon off her plate. She swatted at him playfully and they laughed in unison. Seeing them together tugged at Natalie’s heartstrings. Would she ever have that easy camaraderie with a mate? Maybe. Could be. If this morning was the real deal. How would she know? And what was she supposed to do if it was the real deal? Biker dude was most likely halfway to El Paso by now.

  “Yes, please do tell us. We love a ripping good yarn, don’t we, Mazey?” one of the older ladies chimed in as she maneuvered to the table, a cane in one hand and her plate in the other.

  It was a story Natalie told every day, sometimes numerous times, but no one ever had to twist her arm to get her to relate it again. She was proud of her hometown and her heritage. Besides, the legend was her edge over the four-star hotel and spa condos.

  “Well,” she said, sitting down with the guests, lowering her voice and glancing at each of them in turn, drawing them into her crafted narrative. “It all started with a hanging.”

  Chapter 3

  Until he appeared I never knew what I was waiting for.

  —MILLIE GREENWOOD

  “Right after the Civil War, when Cupid was still just a settlement, there were three times as many women living here as men. And the few men that were around were either too young or too old for military service,” Natalie told her guests.

  The sunlight fell across the table. Mazey squinted. Her companion shaded her eyes with her hand. Natalie got up to close the blinds. Cars motored by on Stone Street, and there came the sound of a motorcycle engine.

  Natalie’s pulse quickened. It was a Harley! How fast could her heart gallop before she had a heart attack? Riveted. Right there to the spot. The Harley came into view. Natalie held her breath.

  It was a gray-haired guy with a ZZ Top beard and a red “For Sale” sign posted on the back of his Harley. The local taxidermist, Beau Jenkins.

  It was not he. Not her guy.

  With trembling fingers, she snapped the blinds closed. Breathe. Crazy. This was craziness. Then again, wasn’t that what love at first sight was all about, an illogical craziness that somehow turned completely rational in the face of overwhelming emotion?

  “Common problem post–Civil War,” said the guy who was writing the book. “All the good ones got picked off.”

  “There were also a lot of outlaws and deserters roaming the area, and the local caverns often served as a hideout.” Natalie limped over to close the cover on the chafing dish of bacon that had been left open.

  “Bad boys,” whispered the blond newlywed, and gave a little shiver.

  Her husband hooked her around the shoulder with the crook of his elbow and pulled her closer to him.

  “Because of all the outlaws, there were also a lot of hangings.” Natalie rearranged the paper napkins on the buffet table into a pretty pattern. There. Nice and orderly again.

  Mazey put a hand to her mouth. “My goodness, how barbaric!”

  “Function of the times,” said the writer. “Back then, they were free with the noose.”

  Natalie slipped back into her chair. “Anyway, because of the man shortage and the preponderance of outlaws, someone got the bright idea that a man could be saved from being hanged if a woman from the settlement would agree to marry him.”

  “Rehabilitation through forced marriage.” The writer laughed.

  “It’s just like in that Jack Nicholson movie Goin’ South,” said Mazey’s companion.

  “Exactly.” Natalie smiled. “We have the movie available on demand. It’s the ultimate marriage-of-convenience story. Jack Nicholson doesn
’t get hanged and Mary Steenburgen gets someone to do her manual labor. And then nature takes its course. Similar story here in real life between Mingus Dill and Louisa Hendricks.”

  “And it was love at first sight?” The blonde cut her eyes over at her husband. He chucked her under the chin affectionately.

  “Hardly,” Natalie said. “Mingus was a good-looking man and quite charming. He had a way with women, but his talent got him into trouble. When a husband in Fort Worth caught Mingus in bed with his wife, he came at him with a meat cleaver. Mingus barely made it out the window with his hide attached. The husband was in a blind rage and came after him. In order to make a quick getaway, Mingus snagged the man’s horse, took off into the night, and fled to the Chihuahuan Desert.”

  The writer took a small spiral notebook from his front shirt pocket and started taking notes.

  “It turned out the woman’s husband was a marshal and feeling vindictive. Mingus was tagged as a horse thief on his wanted poster.” Natalie shifted in her seat, and the antique chair creaked.

  “Horse thievery was a hanging offense,” the writer supplied.

  “Sometime later, Mingus showed up here and caused a stir among the ladies, but eventually someone recognized him. One of the women warned him to get out of town, and once again, he barely made good his escape. A posse was hot on his trail,” she went on.

  “How thrilling.” Mazey bit into a cinnamon roll.

  The writer took a big gulp of coffee and went back to his scribbling.

  “Not for Mingus. He was a lover, not a fighter.” Natalie got up again, retrieved the coffee carafe, and topped off the writer’s cup.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Natalie held up the carafe. “Anyone else want more coffee?”

  The bride shook her head.

  The groom said, “Orange juice?”

  Natalie retrieved the hand-squeezed orange juice from the iced bucket on the sideboard.

  “Mingus reminds me of Jake Spoon from Lonesome Dove,” Mazey’s traveling companion said. “Remember him?”