Chapter Thirteen
Dan had beenon the fence about his living room already. Spending idle hours with his leg propped on pillows while his mother fussed over him, and staring at the art-laden walls, made him hate it. The landscapes he was okay with, but the carved wooden buffalo on the mantel was too cliché for words.
As for the vases of flowers, there’d been plenty of those before he’d been shot. He could open his own floral shop now.
His bad mood had nothing to do with the décor—well, not a whole lot—and everything to do with the fact that Jazz still hadn’t made an appearance.
Her concern for him hadn’t been fake. She’d arrived at midnight to see him. She’d clung tightly to his hand at the hospital. He’d been certain that, after a few days to think about things, she’d be on his doorstep, willing to talk.
But he’d spent a week in the hospital, and now, two days at home. That was nine days in total. He’d give it another day or two of physiotherapy so he’d be more mobile, and then he’d go to her. If all that kept her from exploring where things between them might go was a family of freeloaders, then she didn’t give him enough credit.
He heard the main doorbell, suffered a brief leap of hope, then dialed it back to reality. His mother was screening his visitors, refusing to allow sheriff or ranch business to intrude on his recovery. If it was Jazz though, she’d let her in.
His mother marched into the living room from the kitchen, which she’d claimed as her own, wiping her hands on a towel. “Don’t move,” she ordered him on her way past, as if afraid he might leap off the sofa and make a break for freedom when she opened the door.
He heard a female voice, too far away to identify, then two sets of footsteps. Optimism leaped in his chest as the main door to his living room opened.
“You have a visitor,” his mother said, stepping aside to allow a woman—who wasn’t Jazz—to enter first.
Dan’s flash of disappointment quickly shifted to interest. The woman was tall, blond, and lovely. Exceedingly so. Jaw dropping, in fact. High heels and tight jeans made her legs appear that much longer. A plain white blouse was tucked in at the front. Long sleeves covered her arms. She looked too much like Jazz for there not to be a connection. Her age was difficult to guess because she’d had a few nips and tucks, but since Jazz didn’t have an older sister, he was going to place her around fifty. She was softer than Jazz, with less muscle mass, but she’d have to work out to stay in this kind of shape.
This was what Jazz would look like in twenty or so years—except for the cosmetic surgery, of course. That, he couldn’t imagine.
She crossed the room with confidence and grace, her hand extended, a bright smile fixed firmly in place. “I’m so happy to finally meet you. I’m Keira, Jasmine’s mother.”
At first glance, no one would ever believe that this beautiful, confident, and sexy—she moved in a way guaranteed to make sure men noticed—woman would encourage her daughter to get pregnant in order to snag a man with money. Her smile brimmed with a warmth that spilled into her eyes. Eyes were a tell.
But as she’d first walked through the door, she’d checked out the room before looking at him. She’d forgotten his mother, too, which didn’t earn her any points as far as he was concerned, and since her approval rating had started off shaky, she was already fighting uphill. All he had to do was picture a twelve-year-old Jazz stealing food to feed two little boys and the strikes were against her.
He shook the hand she offered him and prepared to be dazzled. This show should be good.
“Mrs. O’Reilly,” he said, just to get under her skin, because as far as he knew from what Jazz had said, there was no Mr. O’Reilly and never had been. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Her laugh was like the tinkle of crystal wind chimes stirred by a light summer breeze. “Call me Keira. And I’m sure none of it was good. Jasmine was never a mommy’s girl by any stretch of the imagination. The fights we had… What a handful to raise!”
Dan didn’t doubt it. Jazz would have her own ideas about right and wrong. Probably better ones, too. He invited Kiera to sit. His mother offered her coffee.
“Bring a cup for yourself too,” he said to his mother. He’d be curious to hear her impression of Keira later.
Keira settled into the wingback chair closest to Dan. “I heard about your accident and had to come. Jasmine never lets on when she’s upset, but a mother knows these things.” She glanced at his mother and offered her another one of those charming smiles. “Do you have any daughters?”
“Two.”
“Then you understand.”
Ordinarily, Freda McKillop was nobody’s fool, but Dan could see her falling for Keira’s act. She automatically assumed every mother loved her children, even if some were better at showing it than others. She likely thought Keira was simply unorthodox.
She was certainly that. In Dan’s mind, however, she was already ticking the boxes for narcissistic, passive-aggressive behavior. She’d started off by playing the victim—Jazz was a handful. Jazz didn’t communicate… If he hadn’t overheard that phone conversation between them, it might have taken him longer to catch on himself. Signs of a drug problem were there too, although they weren’t conclusive. Long sleeves on a hot day. The whites of her eyes were shot through with red and she kept her hands busy to hide a slight tremor.
His mother went to check on the coffee.
“You have two sisters, so you know how stubborn women can be,” Keira said to him.
Did he ever. He wasn’t stupid enough to say that out loud with his mother in hearing range though, so he made a noise that could be interpreted any number of ways.
“Jasmine can be especially stubborn. She’s always been fearless, too,” her mother continued. “It’s no surprise she decided to become a firefighter. It’s certainly no surprise to me that she’s fallen for a sheriff, either.”
“She likes my guns,” Dan said, straight-faced.