The Ballad of Dixon Bell

A person who wasn’t her. The knowledge that L.T.’s real problem with their marriage had been as simple as falling out of love with his own wife struck Kate with the force of a felled tree. Devastated all over again, she stared down at her chicken casserole and knew with complete certainty that she couldn’t possibly manage another bite.

DIXON SAW a stricken look take over Kate’s beautiful face, but couldn’t figure out what might have caused it. He and Kelsey were getting along just fine—he’d exerted himself to reach out to her, wanting to make sure Kate knew that her kids were no barrier, as far as he was concerned. The boy would be harder to get to know. Trace had a hunger about him that Dixon had seen in runaways and abandoned teenagers, a hunger for attention, for guidance, which Dixon had no trouble at all attributing to the boy’s father. L.T. LaRue had left his son at a vulnerable point in the boy’s young life, with an emptiness that only a father could fill. Dixon understood that void, having grown up without his dad. At least he’d had Miss Daisy. And Trace had Kate. But even the most loving mother couldn’t completely take a father’s place.

“So what’s everybody having for dessert?” Abby Brannon stood at his shoulder, surveying the remains of their meal. “Kate, honey, you’ve hardly touched your food. Is something wrong?” Kate shook her head and Abby didn’t press for an answer. She moved around the table clearing plates, a woman of ample curves and ample concern for everyone she encountered. He remembered her as a shy girl, coping with her mother’s terminal illness even as she got ready to leave high school and start her own adult life. While he had struck off on his own, ranging far and wide in an effort to discover who he was, Abby had stayed at home. Was she satisfied with what she knew about herself? About the rest of the world?

Then again, Dixon wasn’t sure he was satisfied, after everywhere he’d been and everything he’d done. And look at Kate—valedictorian of the graduating class, voted Most Likely to Succeed, the one student among them whom everybody was sure would launch a brilliant career and make her mark on the world. As he recalled, she’d planned to be a lawyer like her dad. Thirteen years later, she was a spurned wife in the same little town she’d grown up in. Yet another of life’s ironies.

She certainly didn’t seem happy, didn’t radiate the kind of confidence and joy he remembered adoring in her all those years ago. She was still breathtaking, with her dark hair, her pale, perfect skin and her slender figure, but muted, as if a shadow hung over her life. The shadow of L.T. LaRue.

“Who are you planning to kill?” Abby leaned over to take his plate and slide the knife out of his clenched fist. “And what do you want for dessert? Lemon meringue pie? Chocolate cake and ice cream?”

Dixon deliberately relaxed. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you, too. And just coffee, thanks. I’ll save dessert for tomorrow.”

“All you disciplined people.” Abby sighed. “Why do I spend my time making pies for people who won’t eat them?” Shaking her head, she headed toward the kitchen with a trayful of used plates and glasses balanced on one arm.

“I don’t know how she does it.” Kate, too, was shaking her head. “Always smiling, always ready to serve, and she works harder than anybody I know.”

“A-Abby’s a w-wonder.” Adam leaned back in his chair. “Charlie s-s-still comes t-to w-work, but s-since his heart attack, he m-mostly v-visits with the c-customers. Abby’s d-d-definitely the p-prime mover around here.”

The bell on the diner’s front door jingled, announcing new arrivals. Dixon glanced over out of curiosity, only to have his gut tighten with a combination of irritation and dread when a young woman wearing a mind-bending red dress stepped inside, followed by L.T. LaRue.

Beside Dixon, Kelsey gasped and stiffened. On the other side of the table, Kate and Trace and Adam couldn’t see, without turning around, what was going on. But all Kate needed was her daughter’s face. As she stared at Kelsey, reading the girl’s reaction, what little color she had left in her cheeks drained away. She pressed her lips together for a few seconds and took a deep breath.

“Well, this has been fun.” Her voice shook slightly. “But Kelsey and Trace have homework, so I think we should be getting home. Adam, if you’ll excuse us—”

DeVries had taken a quick glance over his shoulder to gauge the situation. “Of c-course.” He got to his feet to let Kate slide out of the booth. Dixon did the same for Kelsey, all the while keeping an eye on LaRue. Abby, bless her heart, had herded L.T. and his girlfriend to the other side of the diner. For a minute, Dixon thought disaster had been avoided.

But LaRue let his companion sit down and then strutted across the room to stand directly in Kate’s path of escape.

“Well, look here. What an interesting group this is.” He put his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rocked back on his heels. “Hey, Trace, Kelsey. I was looking forward to seeing y’all on Saturday for breakfast. How’s school going?” He sounded genial enough, if a little distracted. And he didn’t wait for an answer from the kids. “You’re keeping strange company these days, Kate. Selling secrets to my biggest rival?” LaRue’s laugh set Dixon’s teeth on edge.

Kate shook her head. “Just visiting with old friends, L.T. Have you met Dixon Bell? He went to school with Adam and me, and has just come home after a long time away.”

“I have, in fact.” LaRue nodded at Dixon. “Which is why I’m really interested to see him talking with the head of DeVries Construction. Thought you’d get a better offer, did you, Dixon? I’m telling you that’s not likely.”

“And I’m telling you I don’t care what the offer is, LaRue. Magnolia Cottage is not for sale.” Dixon strived for the same calm Kate had demonstrated. LaRue had already made him mad once tonight. He didn’t intend to repeat the experience. That would give the man too much importance.

“Y-you m-must have a p-p-persecution complex, LaRue.” Adam shook his head and gathered up the checks Abby had left on the table. “I-I’ve got a-a-all the w-work I c-can handle. I d-d-don’t n-need to go h-harassing p-p-people to s-sell me their a-ancestral homes.” He turned to Kate, put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I enjoyed s-seeing you again. Y’all, t-too,” he said with a glance at Kelsey and Trace. “I’ll t-take care of the b-bill.”

“Oh, Adam, you don’t have to do that.”

He gave her a wink. “I—I know. Call me, Dixon.”

“Will do.”

In the silence Adam left behind, LaRue narrowed his focus to Kate. “Kinda late for my kids to be out, isn’t it? Don’t they have homework? Not to mention a curfew, after all that trouble they caused last spring?”

“Yes, and yes, and yes.” Kate put the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “So we’ll say goodbye and let you get to your dinner.” She took a step that brought her within inches of LaRue, who grinned but didn’t move. “You’re in my way, L.T. Please let me go by.”

Her husband—ex-husband?—held her in place until Dixon started around the table. Then LaRue retreated. “See you bright and early Saturday, kids. Don’t be late.”

Like mice caught out in the kitchen when the light was turned on at night, Trace, Kelsey and Kate scurried out of the diner while L.T. had his back turned toward them on the way to his table. Dixon stood for a minute, considering the possibility of a showdown, here and now, but decided Abby and Charlie didn’t need the hassle. The time would come, though. No doubt about that. So, with a wave toward Abby behind the counter, he headed for the door.

Outside in the hot July night, Trace and Kelsey were arguing about something as they unlocked the Volvo. “Come on, Kate,” Kelsey called. “Let’s go.”

But Kate had stopped just beside the front of Dixon’s truck, as if her legs wouldn’t take her any farther. When he put a hand under her elbow, he could feel her whole body tremble.

“Are you okay?”

She turned sightless eyes upon him. “Um…I don’t think so. I need a minute. Which is silly, isn’t it? Nothing happened. There’s no reason to be so upset.” She put her hand over her eyes. The deep breath she drew shook with the sound of tears.

Aware of the lighted windows behind them, Dixon pulled her around until the body of the truck stood between Kate and the diner. Then he opened the truck door, put his hands around her narrow waist and lifted her onto the passenger seat. He made himself let go quickly. She didn’t need another predator stalking her tonight.

But as she sat there, elbows on her knees and head in her hands, he wrestled with the powerful urge to close his arms around her and never let go. He wanted to put himself between Kate Bowdrey and the rest of the world, make sure nothing and nobody ever hurt her again. His heart ached with the need she had always inspired in him. And he couldn’t let one bit of what he was feeling show.

Someday, he would be free to tell her how much she mattered to him. Surely, someday.

But not yet. So he stood stiff and silent while Kate struggled alone with her despair.

Kate knew she was being weak, knew she shouldn’t give in to the anguish L.T. provoked in her these days. When she knew she would see him, she could prepare herself and get through the encounter pretty well. But accidental meetings like this just swept under her defenses, gave her no chance to control her reaction. And so here she was, quivering like a beached jellyfish.

With Dixon Bell standing there watching.

At the realization, she jerked herself upright. She’d accepted his help, let him practically hide her from the world, then forgotten he was there. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped as her cheeks heated up. “What you must be thinking…” She couldn’t meet his gaze, and she couldn’t get out of the truck because he was standing right in front of her.

His fingertips brushed across her cheek. “I’m thinking you’ll be well rid of that bastard. And that I’m really glad I got to have dinner with you tonight after all.”

Something in his rich voice encouraged her to look up. She found no pity in his eyes, only a depth of understanding she would never have expected.

“Me, too,” she admitted, under the spell of his smile. And discovered that she actually felt free to smile back.

But darkness had fallen while she huddled in Dixon’s truck. Loud rock music blared across the parking lot from the Volvo where Trace and Kelsey waited. Kate sighed, sat up straighter. “I’d better go.”

She thought he would step back and let her hop down from the high truck seat. Instead, he placed his hands on her waist and swung her around and down, setting her gently on her feet. She felt a little dizzy, a little breathless as she stared up at him.

“Thank you. For everything.”

Again, he stroked his fingers over her cheek. “My pleasure. Good night.”

She lifted her hand, backed up a couple of steps and then, reluctantly, turned toward the Volvo. With great resolve, she managed not to look around again until she had the car door closed and her seat belt fastened. Dixon was still standing by his truck, watching, with his hands in his pockets and one foot crossed over the other. When she waved, he waved back. Then Kelsey turned the car onto the highway, and they left the diner behind.

Back to the real and dreary world, Kate told herself. When she thought of the expression in Dixon’s eyes, however, the gentleness in his voice, his touch, she couldn’t repress a surge of hope.

Or maybe not.

L.T. PRETENDED TO READ the menu, though he pretty much always ordered the same dinner when he came to Charlie’s. He pretended to listen as Melanie chattered on about her mother’s new boyfriend and her sister’s old boyfriend and…whatever. As long as he said something every once in a while, she was happy just to keep talking and believe he heard everything she said.

“That so?” he said when she paused.

She gave him her little-girl smile and started up again.

Charlie Brannon limped over to their table, blocking L.T.’s view of Kate and the kids as they left the diner. “What can I get y’all tonight?” The old man had been a marine drill sergeant and acted as if he still had that kind of authority.

Melanie ordered a salad plate. L.T. went for the usual. “Fried chicken, white and dark, mashed potatoes, green beans, biscuits.”

Charlie nodded. “Be right back.”

With Brannon out of the way, L.T. stared out the plate-glass windows on the front of the diner, trying to figure out what was going on. The Volvo was still parked at the far end of the lot, and he could see the kids inside, doors open, lights on. They’d wear down the battery if they weren’t careful. Where was Kate? Why hadn’t they gone home?

He finally realized that Kate was sitting in Dixon Bell’s truck. The lights were on there, too, because the door was still open. L.T. could see the silhouette of her head and, beyond, the shadow of Bell’s face. They appeared to be talking. About what?

Shaking his head, he picked up his iced tea and drained half the glass. Old times, probably, the ones he’d never been a part of. He’d come into this town as a stranger. Sure, he was Kate Bowdrey’s husband, and that gave him some leverage. But most of her friends and their parents had looked at him as if he belonged on another planet instead of in a different town. He had never really fit in.

He’d made money, though, and that had bought him acceptance. He built their new houses, renovated their old ones, and they liked him for it. Unless something went wrong, of course. Nobody realized that you couldn’t get perfect work at reasonable prices. The economics just didn’t add up. L.T. gave them the prices they liked, and they just had to live with the flaws.

“Chicken salad plate and fried chicken.” Charlie set down their plates and a basket of biscuits. “Abby’ll be here to refill your tea in a minute. Anything else?”

L.T. shook his head and attacked his meal. But with a piece of chicken in his fingers, halfway between plate and mouth, he looked outside again to see the Volvo driving away. Dixon Bell came around the front of his truck and then he, too, was gone.

Good riddance. Crunching into Abby’s crispy chicken crust, L.T. thought about Bell’s attitude that afternoon at the house. Wouldn’t sell. Well, they’d just see about that. It took a strong man to resist L.T. LaRue. A strong one, or a very, very rich one. He’d have to find out whether Dixon Bell fit in either category.

And then find a way to break him, anyway.

CHAPTER THREE

MISS DAISY WAS ALREADY bustling around the house when Dixon came downstairs at six-thirty on Friday morning. She stopped long enough to kiss him on the cheek.

“The housekeeper will be here at nine,” she reminded him. “We have to have everything straightened up before then.”

He followed her through the parlor as she took the cats’ towels off the furniture and bundled them up in her arms. In several cases, she had to remove a cat, too. Dixon knew he was guilty of exaggerating when he’d told Kate there were too many cats to count. In fact, there were only four—Audrey, Clark, Cary and Marlon. But they moved silently and appeared out of nowhere when he least expected it, so he felt as if he was living with at least twice that number.

“Forgive my confusion, Miss Daisy, but isn’t that what you have a housekeeper for? To straighten the house?”

“I don’t need to hire somebody to pick up your dirty socks.” She handed him the pair he’d left by the couch after falling asleep in front of the television waiting for her to come home. He’d waked up about three in the morning with the long-haired white cat—Audrey?—snoring on his chest. “I get the clutter out of her way so Consuela can do the real cleaning.”

“That’s clear as mud.” Dixon followed his grandmother into the kitchen. “Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”

“I’ve had my daily quota, thank you. I’ll be glad to fix you some breakfast, though. We still have time. Eggs and bacon? Pancakes?”

He toasted her with his coffee mug. “I’m fine. What can I do to help you?”

Miss Daisy was busy putting away the clean dishes still in the drainer from yesterday. Magnolia Cottage didn’t own a dishwasher. “Just be sure your room is neat, dear. And the bathroom upstairs. That will be sufficient.”

Coffee in hand, Dixon climbed the wide, uncarpeted staircase to the second floor, appreciating the fine woodwork. At the same time, he noted a couple of missing balusters and the desperate need for a refinishing job on the banister. In his bedroom, he picked up his shirt and slacks from last night and caught, along with a flurry of white cat hair, a whiff of Kate’s rose-washed perfume clinging to the cloth. Or imagined he did, anyway. His first waking thought, as it was on many mornings, had been of Kate. He wondered if she’d spent time thinking about him last night, or if she’d gone home and straight to sleep. He couldn’t help but notice that she looked exhausted. Beautiful, but exhausted.

In the bathroom, he hung his towel over the rack, as opposed to the shower-curtain rod, stowed his shaving gear in his bag and put it under his arm to take to his room. There was no linen closet, no storage cabinet of any kind in the tiny, white-tiled bath. The sink rested on a stainless-steel frame and the tub was the ancient, freestanding variety. Big but difficult, he was certain, to clean behind.

Dixon decided he’d better get out a notepad and start writing down all the things he wanted to fix in the house. There were too many to keep a mental list.

He spent a couple of pleasurable hours surveying the second floor, thinking about converting a small bedroom into a bath, creating a walk-in closet for Miss Daisy so she wouldn’t have to store her wardrobe in every closet but his. Just as he reached the foot of the stairs again, the front doorbell rang. He opened the door to a short, plump lady with glossy black hair and a sweet smile.

“I am Consuela Torres. You must be Mr. Dixon.”

He took her hand and drew her into the house. “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Torres. Miss Daisy says you’ve done a wonderful job taking care of the house, and of her. I really appreciate that.”

“She is easy to care for. And I am glad to have such steady work.” Consuela set the big shopping bag she carried on the floor by the stairs and bent over to extract cleaning cloths and bottles of various kinds. Dixon saw that she winced as she straightened up again.

“Are you okay?”

She gave him another smile. “Of course. These old bones just take some warming up in the morning. I think I will start upstairs today, if that’s all right with you.”

“That’s great.” He watched her as she went up, noted that she was breathing hard by the time she reached the middle of the staircase. She wasn’t an athletic woman, but she wasn’t really “old,” either, and it seemed to him that climbing the steps shouldn’t be that hard.

“Are you sure Consuela’s okay?” he asked Miss Daisy when he found her in the kitchen. “Is this job too much for her?”

His grandmother considered the questions with her delicate eyebrows drawn together. “She’s worked hard since she was a teenager, that I do know, mostly cleaning houses and offices. She has a number of children, several of them very young. I imagine she is tired most of the time, and feels a little older than her years. But I wouldn’t presume to pity her,” Miss Daisy warned. “And I wouldn’t think of firing her. Her husband can’t hold a job, and some weeks her housekeeping money is all they have to eat on.”

Dixon shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t fire her. I just wonder how to make things easier for her…and for you. This place is a wreck, Miss Daisy. We’ve got to get it fixed up.”

Now her bright blue eyes widened in surprise. “Fixed up? What’s wrong with this house?”

For an answer, he walked to the wall beside the back door and chipped off a piece of crumbling plaster with his fingernail. “For starters. And you need new bathrooms, a new kitchen. More phone connections. What would happen if you fell upstairs and needed help? You couldn’t even make a telephone call.”

“I seem to have managed well enough all these years.” Her tone was frosted with injured pride.

“Sure you have.” Putting an arm around her shoulders, he brought her to the table, brushed a fat calico cat—Marlon?—off the chair, and sat her down. The cat immediately jumped onto Miss Daisy’s lap. “And I don’t have any right to criticize when I stayed away for so long, leaving you to take care of everything all by yourself.”

She shrugged a thin shoulder. “You needed to go, and I gave you my blessing. Anyway, I was used to being in charge. Your grandfather died a long time ago. And then your mother and father…” Her sigh spoke of an unhealed sorrow.

“But I’m here now, Miss Daisy, and I want to make this a comfortable, easy place to live in. For you, and for me, for the family I hope to have someday.”

Daisy sat up straight. “Dixon Crawford Bell! You’re planning a family already? And just who might the lucky woman be? Or do I already know?”

He put a finger on her lips. “Don’t say anything—I don’t want to jinx it. But I do want to set things to rights around here, if you’ll let me.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. “I’m comfortable enough, Dixon, but I don’t have the money to do the kinds of things you’re talking about. How are we going to afford all this?”

Though he hadn’t really doubted that she would go along with his plans, he felt better having her permission to begin. “I’ve got the money, Miss Daisy—they’re paying me pretty well to write songs these days, remember? And I have a lot of time and energy to do at least some of the work on the house myself. Don’t you worry about anything but picking out wallpaper and paint colors and countertops. Leave the rest to me.”

By lunchtime, he’d made a survey of the downstairs and his list had grown to twelve closely written pages. More than a little daunted by the task he’d set himself, he went outside into the hot July sun, where mad dogs, Englishmen and crazy ex-cowboys belonged.

There, the grounds met him with their own demands—knee-high grass, overgrown gardens where weeds formed the primary crop, wisteria and poison ivy vines gone crazy as they climbed over pine trees that should have been pulled up as seedlings fifty years ago. The giant magnolias for which the house was named had fostered their own crop of sprouts, smaller trees which, though beautiful, detracted from the majesty of the originals. Dixon thought he would like to transplant those sprouts rather than just cut them down. But that would entail a monumental amount of extra work.

As he stood staring, feeling his shirt stick to the sweat on his back, which was a combination of heat, humidity and sheer trepidation, a blue Taurus came down the gravel driveway and stopped at the front walk. The driver was young, and his olive skin and black hair easily identified him as Consuela’s son.

“Good afternoon.” Dixon extended his hand and got a firm shake in return. “I’m Dixon Bell.”

“Sal Torres. My mother works here.” There was a certain defiance in the words and an arrogant tilt to the boy’s chin indicated resentment.

“I met her for the first time this morning. I really appreciate all she’s done for my grandmother—it’s not easy for an eighty-four-year-old woman to manage on her own.”

Sal Torres didn’t intend to be placated. “My mother always does a good job. She takes pride in her work.”

“As well she should. I’ve done my share of dirty jobs, chores other people turned up their noses at. Work done well is work to be respected.”

The youngster looked a little surprised, then nodded. “That’s true.” His gaze moved beyond Dixon, to the wilderness around the house. “And it looks like you need a lot of work done out here.”

“Yeah. Inside, too. Your mother keeps things clean, but there’s a mountain of repairs to be made.”

“I know people who do landscaping, carpentry, painting.” Before Dixon could reply, Sal gave a shrug, rueful and angry at the same time. “‘Of course you do,’ you’re thinking. Hispanics are the new labor class. We’ve replaced the African slaves.”