Goddess Rising Page 9

  “Oh, brother.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve got to go.”

  Wes snagged her hand as she slid from the booth. “I bartend over at Dixie’s. Come and see me Tuesday night?”

  He felt her pulse—the sudden quickening—and he smiled. Got her.

  Chapter 7

  September—Monday Morning

  Language Lab, Texas A&M University

  S A M A N T H A

  Sam tugged at her headphones, jotting down her final listening notes for her Mandarin course. The auditory learning wasn’t coming as easy for her as she would have liked, but at least she had a head start with the written characters. Japanese Kanji and traditional Chinese characters weren’t so far off from one another that it felt like she was learning something entirely new, but Sam had to practice twice as hard to get a handle on listening to and translating basic sentences back into English. She was utterly focused on the recording when someone sat down in the listening booth beside her.

  Startled, Sam glanced up, smiling when she realized it was Miranda Cross, one of her classmates from advanced Spanish.

  “Hey, girl,” Miranda said with a broad grin. “You were listening so hard, I thought I might have to throw a book at you to get your attention.”

  “Sorry,” Sam sighed as she leaned back and stretched her back. “You know how it is—you get so focused trying to understand the conversation, you forget everything else going on around you.”

  “I was going to grab a cup of coffee. Got ten minutes to catch up and tell me about your summer?”

  “Sure.” Sam smiled, following her out of the language lab. Miranda looked fresh and pretty in a floral top, short shorts, and sky-high espadrilles. She had deep russet hair and the kind of blue eyes that made you look twice. Though she was only a year or two older than Sam, Miranda carried herself with the kind of womanly confidence Sam secretly envied. Miranda looked good, and she knew how to flaunt her self-assurance without being overt, and she was such a nice person, you really couldn’t fault her for it anyway.

  Sam watched on in amusement as the couple of guys waiting in line at the coffee cart did a double take when Miranda sidled up beside them, automatically moving aside with hopeful expressions so she could order first.

  “Thanks, boys,” Miranda told them with a smile before ordering her and Sam a couple of lattes. “So how was your summer?”

  “Too hot and too short,” Sam replied, tugging a little self-consciously at the ROTC uniform she was required to wear a couple times a week.

  “Oh, come on—you can do better than that,” Miranda responded, rolling her eyes. “Tell me about the handsome rodeo rider you romanced or the outlaw you caught trying to steal cattle off your family’s land.”

  “Good Lord, are you sure you’re studying to be a journalist?” Sam teased. “You might do better becoming a romance novelist.”

  “Ironic observation from the girl who’s studying modern languages and yet manages to evade every single good question with the world’s most boring answers. ‘Too hot and too short,’” Miranda mimicked with an eye roll. “Good grief.”

  “Well, all right—how was yours?”

  Miranda’s answering smile was nearly feline. “Learned to scuba dive in Mexico, went out on a few very good dates, and I went and visited my uncle at Polunsky prison over in Livingston.” She leaned forward. “I think I’m going to write an article or two about it for the school paper.”

  Sam’s brows rose. “Damn. You’re for real?”

  “Yep,” Miranda nodded. “He’s doing time for vehicular manslaughter. Serves him right too. He was driving after drinking enough Jack Daniels to drown a tortoise. But while I was there, I noticed some curious things about the white to non-white ratio of death row inmates.” Miranda got a glint in her eye. “I need to run the idea past my professor, but I think the story might have some legs.”

  “Speaking of legs, I think the guys behind you might have a hard time getting their tongues back into their mouths,” Sam drawled as she and Miranda accepted their coffees.

  Miranda glanced over her shoulder, caught one of them ogling, and winked. The poor guy turned beet red.

  “You’re terrible.” Sam laughed as she watched the guy blush red to his roots.

  “They like the attention,” Miranda replied airily as she led them toward a warm patch of grass nearby. “Now come on—quit holding out on me,” she coaxed as they sat down. “Tell me something good.”

  Sam scanned back over her summer trying to think of something good to say, but in all reality, the most interesting thing that had happened to her recently was meeting Wes. And she bet a girl like Miranda would know exactly how to handle a guy like him. Maybe Miranda could give her some sound advice.

  “I did meet a guy,” Sam admitted. “Well, a couple guys actually.”

  Miranda grinned broadly. “I knew you were holding out!”

  “Well, one’s more of a friend. Reminds me a lot of the guys I grew up with,” Sam admitted with a shrug. And Chris did. He reminded her of the handful of guys she’d gone on dates with back in her home county. Wholesome, corn-fed, good ol’ boys as comforting as mama and apple pie.

  “The other one is…” Sam thought of Wes’s smile, the glint in his eye when he looked at her. “He’s harder to figure out.”

  Miranda shot her an inquisitive look as she leaned back on the grass. “Is he hard to figure out, or are you just not sure you’re ready for what you already know?”

  “Maybe that,” Sam admitted. “He’s interesting. Totally different from any guy I’ve ever met.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s artistic—a creative guy.” She took a sip of her coffee, savoring the taste. “Kind of a free spirit, I guess. I like that about him.”

  “Oooh, this is getting good!” Miranda nodded, eyes twinkling. “So how did you meet this non-conformist? This espíritu libre?”7

  Sam smiled. “He took a picture of me. It was hanging up in the student center. I guess it won some kind of award.”

  Miranda cocked her head, slowly lowering her cup as she considered Sam with a look in her eyes, like she’d just put two and two together and couldn’t quite believe the answer was sitting right in front of her.

  “What?” Sam asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You wouldn’t be talking about Wes Elliott by any chance, would you?” Miranda asked.

  “You know him?” Sam replied, surprised.

  “You could say that.” Miranda sat back on her arms on the soft grass, crossing her legs as she slid her sunglasses over her eyes.

  Sam sipped her coffee for a moment, feeling unsure. Had Miranda dated him? Were they friends? They were both journalism majors—did they have class together?

  “You be careful with that one, Sammy,” Miranda advised.

  “Okay…But why?”

  “Because that boy’s hornier than a three-peckered billy goat, and you can take that to the bank,” Miranda answered succinctly. She slid up gracefully and smiled at Sam as she picked up her bag. “I’ve got to get to my next class, but it’s always good seeing you, Sammy.”

  She nodded. “You too.”

  And with that, Miranda was off, her long-legged stride causing multiple head-swivels.

  Well, there she had it. And a girl as savvy as Miranda would know all about a guy like Wes too. Sam sighed, wondering why she was so disappointed to have confirmed what she already suspected.

  *

  September—Saturday Morning

  Wyatt Ranch, Texas

  R O B E R T W Y A T T

  “How’s our girl?”

  “Stubborn as hell and too goddamn independent,” Robert replied as he lowered the truck’s tailgate.

  Grant Nelson, his ranch foreman and closest friend, chuckled as he helped Robert unload the sacks of feed.

  “So, you’re saying she’s exactly how we raised her to be.”

  Robert rolled his eyes. “Swear to God, she’s just trying to get my goat
half the time. First with turning down Harvard and now with this Army bullshit.”

  Grant grunted, looking across the pasture where Ryland and his son Carey were practicing roping calves. “You know she’d never leave Ry. And the Army thing, well…” He scratched his head. “Ain’t sure about all that, but you know Sammy girl—she’ll do what she’ll do ’til she doesn’t want to and not a second sooner.”

  Robert had to concede that point. Maybe it had been her upbringing, but she reminded him of himself more every year. Head and heart strong, bound and determined to make her own way in life come hell or high water.

  “I was thinking of taking her out to the oil rig when I go in a couple weeks,” Robert mentioned as they carried the bags to the barn. “Get everyone used to seeing her around.”

  “Makes sense,” Grant agreed. “If she’s gonna take over for you, she’ll need to know that business backwards and forwards soon enough.”

  One of the boys managed to rope a calf, hootin’ and hollerin’ as some of the ranch hands clapped. Both men glanced over just in time to see Ryland taking a dramatic bow, tipping his cowboy hat back at a cocky angle.

  “Those two,” Grant said with a smile. “They’ll live on this ranch their whole lives if we let ’em.”

  But not Sammy, Robert thought. Once she’d seen Ry was good and grown, she’d be gone. Out in the world like a shot. Just like him when he’d been young.

  His phone rang in the truck.

  “Better get that,” Grant told him. “I’ll go get the boys back up to the house to help Hannah out with lunch.”

  “Thanks,” Robert replied, sitting in the cab of the truck. He picked up the handset he had mounted in the dash next to the ranch’s CB radio. “What you got for me?” he asked, recognizing the number of his private investigator.

  “Found out the name of the kid who’s got a beef with Sammy. No one’s confessing to seeing it, but the couple cadets I asked think he’s the one who marked her up during field training.”

  Robert’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “Go on.”

  “Kid’s name is Alejandro de Soto. First-generation Chicano. Grew up in Little Village, a pretty rough neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. He’s got one younger sister. Parents came here twenty years ago with a little money. Opened a restaurant in the neighborhood, but his dad was shot dead during a holdup when Alejandro was just a kid. He joined up with the Latin Kings at fourteen to earn protection for his family.”

  Robert lifted a brow. “Wrap sheet?”

  “Expunged,” came the answer. “Looks like he was into some petty theft, suspected of dealing, but nothing stuck. He was bailed out by a local do-gooder, this hotshot attorney named Sandro Roman. Looking to make a name for himself in Chicago politics turning rough kids and bad neighborhoods around.”

  “I know him,” Robert responded. “Roman’s got a senatorial bid. He’s looking good for it, too.”

  “Well, he’s definitely endeared himself to the minority community in Chicago. Got this kid into ROTC in high school. Part of what helped him get his act together.”

  “That how De Soto ended up in Texas?” Robert asked.

  “Full ride on ROTC. And he’s good,” his investigator confirmed. “One of the best, according to his records. He’s a senior now, but Sasser’s already recommending him for Ranger School in Fort Benning.”

  “Weaknesses?” Robert asked. “Gambling, girls, debts?”

  “Not that I can tell. I’ll keep digging, but he seems like a decent kid. He calls his mama and his sister a couple times a week. Got a couple hundred bucks in a school checking account. No credit. Picks up odd jobs here and there. Doesn’t seem to party too hard. Above-average grades.”

  “Dig up what you can find on his mother and sister then,” Robert replied.

  There was a brief pause.

  “Sir, he’s just a kid—”

  “Who’s threatening my daughter,” Robert said in a tone that brooked no argument. “That makes him old enough to make an enemy out of me.”

  A sigh. “You got it.”

  “And one more thing.” Robert looked out over his ranch lands, sprawling out as far as the eye could see. “Look into another kid named Wes Elliott.”

  “He a problem for Sammy too?”

  “Not yet,” Robert replied. “But I like to be prepared.”

  *

  September—Tuesday Night

  Dixie’s, College Station, Texas

  W E S L E Y

  “Hey, barkeep! Need another round down here!”

  “You got it.” Wes tossed the dish towel over his shoulder as he held a pint glass up to the spigot, his eye on the clock next to the neon beer signs and a television playing ESPN reruns from Monday Night Football.

  10:34 p.m.

  Still no sign of his muse.

  He poured four Budweisers for the guys playing pool in the corner.

  It was a quiet night, just as he’d predicted when he’d left the message on Sam’s answering machine that she hadn’t responded to. Wes had spent a couple days feeling uncharacteristically off-kilter, wondering where she was, what she was up to.

  Chris remained prickly the few times they’d crossed paths. Wes hadn’t mentioned anything about Samantha after their initial conversation, figuring it would only cause more friction. Looking at the situation now, he was glad he hadn’t. Chris would never let him live it down that Samantha wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of him, even after he’d offered her the only thing he’d figured she’d want—the honest-to-god, unvarnished truth. If she ever came around to asking any questions.

  Wes carried the beers down to the pool table, handing off the drinks. The group was made up of A&M guys, ball caps low over their eyes, wearing jeans and t-shirts. A couple of them stood ramrod straight despite their relaxed expressions. Cadets, Wes thought as he headed back to the bar, wiping his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder. They all had that look about them—alert, disciplined, a little aloof.

  “What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?”

  Wes’s head snapped up at the sound of Samantha’s whisky-singed rasp. Wes felt a slow, happy smile stretch his mouth wide as he watched her slide onto a bar stool in front of him.

  Unlike the last time he’d seen her, tonight she was dressed simply in a pair of jeans and a tank top. She had on some kind of soft sweater over it that made him want to step close and wrap himself up in there with her.

  “Well, well,” he drawled, leaning on the heavy oak bar. “Look who decided to put me out of my misery.”

  “You hardly look miserable,” she pointed out, crossing her hands in front of her as she glanced around the bar.

  “You’re talking to a guy who spent the last half hour scheming ways to get the attention of a girl who wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole,” he replied, leaning in close enough to kiss her, just to rattle her cage a little.

  “Looks like I’m fresh out of barge poles,” Sam murmured, staring at his mouth.

  “Must be my lucky day,” he said in a low voice before moving back. “What can I get you?”

  Sam seemed to snap out of it. Then she blushed. Hard. Wes suppressed the brazen smile that fought to surface after his little win.

  “Club soda with lime.”

  His brows lifted. “Not much of a drinker?”

  “I’m nineteen.”

  “That’s not a problem,” he replied, though somehow he doubted she’d like knowing what he did on the side when he wasn’t bartending.

  “It’s a school night,” she added, glancing around Dixie’s casually until someone caught her eye.

  Wes noticed her stiffen and followed the direction of her gaze. One of the guys at the pool table stared back. He was a built Latino guy—actually one of the guys Wes had immediately marked as a cadet. And he didn’t like the way the guy was looking at Sam. Not one bit.

  “You know him?”

  Sam shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “ROTC.”

&nb
sp; So he’d been right after all. Wes looked at the guy again before he went about pouring her drink, squeezing a lime into the glass before placing it in front of her.

  “Thanks,” she told him with a little toast.

  “So what’s the story between you two?” Wes asked, nodding toward the guy at the pool table.

  “No story,” she replied, glancing around the bar casually.

  “I believe you’re reneging on our deal, Ms. Wyatt,” Wes tutted.

  Sam looked at him askance.

  Wes leaned toward her again, fighting the instinct to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Deal was, you and I were going to be honest with each other. Remember?”

  Sam considered him a moment, like she was debating whether he’d really be serious or not. He could tell the moment she decided to reply, but they were interrupted by a couple of attractive girls sidling up to the bar, wearing skimpy tops and daisy dukes. Wes realized immediately that he knew one of them—in the biblical sense, though he couldn’t quite recall her name. He nearly cringed when she parked herself right next to Samantha.

  “Hey, Wes,” the girl purred, leaning forward so he could get a closer look down her top as she flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. “It’s been a couple weeks—how’ve you been?”

  “All right,” he nodded, careful to keep his eyes above her shoulders. “You?” he asked, unable to place her name.

  “Been better.” She shrugged. “Thought you’d call.” She glanced briefly at Samantha.

  Standing side by side, the two girls couldn’t have been more different, though they both had dark hair. One was all sexy skin and open invitation, and Sam probably had enough fabric on her to outfit them both. But there was a light in Sam’s eyes that was absent in the gaze of the other girl—plus a Mona Lisa smile that made him want to ask her every question he could think of.

  Chris had been absolutely right. Sam was no hit-it-and-quit-it type of girl. She was the kind of girl you wanted to make love to and talk to all night long in equal measure. Looking at the two—one he’d had and could barely remember, and one he hadn’t had but couldn’t stop thinking about—Wes suddenly recognized the difference. He realized in that moment he’d ascended to an altogether different playing field of preference. It was like watching minor league ball after you’d been to a game at Yankee Stadium. No contest.