Texas On My Mind

“Daniel’s not doing it for you, fantasy-wise?” Oh, he so should have given that some thought before it came out of his mouth. Too bad the new pain meds hadn’t made him comatose instead of just dizzy and drowsy.

A teeny-tiny smile crossed her lips and then vanished. “Do you really want to talk about me and Daniel having sex?”

Yeah, right after he slid down a mile-long stretch of razor blades. Riley hoped his silence, and possibly his wincing, let her know that it was not something on the discussion table.

“Are you sleeping better?” she asked.

Not exactly a safe subject, but they were running out of topics here. “Some.”

And that led him to something else he’d been thinking about lately. He tipped his head to the flowers she’d brought. “How did you deal with the memories of what happened to my mom and dad?”

Claire gave him a long look. “I don’t have a lot of memories. It’s more like little bits and pieces, you know?”

This time, he did know, but bits and pieces could still come together for an ugly picture.

“And the bits and pieces aren’t all of the accident itself. Your father told a joke,” Claire went on. “Your mother laughed. Then the crash happened.”

He knew all of that. It’d been a knock-knock joke.

His dad: Knock knock.

His mom: Who’s there?

Dad: Boo

Mom: Boo who?

Dad: Ah, don’t cry, honey.

Riley hadn’t been there, but Claire had filled him in over the years. Those last moments of their lives were as clear in his head as if he had witnessed every second of it. Heck. He wished he had. Then he could have had the chance to say goodbye.

He looked at her, hoping that her eyes weren’t burning like his. Because if Claire lost it, Riley would have to pull her into his arms. It wasn’t a good time for that to happen. Not with all this nervous energy zinging between them.

But no tears. She smiled when she glanced at the roses.

“You have nightmares about it?” he asked her.

She drew in a long breath. “Not very often. Why are you asking? Are you having a lot of nightmares? Is that what was happening when I woke you?” Thankfully, she didn’t wait for him to answer. Or for him to flub around with an explanation. “Because what helped me was a picture of you.”

Riley had to go back through that to make sure he’d heard her right. “Me?”

She nodded. “You just seemed to be holding things together a lot better than I was. So when I’d have bad dreams and sad thoughts, I’d look at your picture in the yearbook—the one with you in your football uniform—and I’d remind myself that if you could do it, then so could I.”

He definitely hadn’t been holding it together. But Logan had. He’d swooped in and taken care of all the funeral arrangements, the business stuff. Even Anna. Riley had put on a front, but it was just that—a front. It’d been good practice, though, for the front he was putting on now.

“I still look at your picture sometimes,” she went on. “Because every now and then the dreams come back.”

“And looking at my picture actually helps?” Riley wished he hadn’t sounded so astonished, but he was.

“Sure. Well, for the nightmares but not for thunderstorms. You don’t work for me in thunderstorms.”

Yeah, Claire had a thing about storms, spiders and zombie movies. But Riley hadn’t had a clue she’d even attempted to use his picture or anything about him to help her get through it.

“Riley!” Ethan called out. The kid had obviously noticed he was awake and sounded excited to see him. Riley was mildly surprised that he was excited to see Ethan, too.

Ethan had given up on his Crazy Dog playdate, and he barreled up the steps toward them. But he didn’t just come onto the porch. He crawled into the porch swing, wriggling his pint-size body in between Claire and him. He had a toy car in each hand. Several were crammed in his pockets, and the ones in his left pocket dug into the outside of Riley’s thigh. Since that was his sore leg, the pain nudged Riley a bit, but he didn’t move. Riley wanted to hang on to this closeness for a little while.

“Angel,” Ethan said, and he pointed to the Combat Rescue Officer badge on Riley’s uniform. The kid climbed into Riley’s lap to get a better look at it.

“No.” Claire immediately reached for her son, probably because she thought it would hurt Riley.

And it did. More than just a nudge this time, but Riley stopped her from whisking him up. Instead, Riley fished out his phone and maneuvered Claire closer so that her head was right against Ethan’s.

“Smile. It’s a picture for Anna,” he said, snapping the shot. “She wanted to see how big Ethan’s getting.”

That was such a huge lie that Riley thought it might spur even Crazy Dog to action. Claire gave him that look, the one that let him know that she knew he was lying, but the look also told him that she really wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was simmering beneath the lie.

Good.

Because Riley turned the phone and snapped a picture of just her. She was caught with her mouth slightly puckered, as if she was waiting for that kiss he’d been considering.

Hell. He just might have a cure for those flashbacks after all.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_f49e20e1-7090-59d0-83d7-7e3231a7afca)

THE MIGRAINE WAS chasing Logan McCord, and it was winning.

The blind spots were already there. The little swirly bright dots, too. He figured he had less than a half hour before he would have to pretend he was so exhausted that he needed a morning nap.

At least Della and Stella wouldn’t be around to try to mother him because they wouldn’t be back until tomorrow from their forced vacation. Riley wouldn’t be there, either, since he was at physical therapy. Lucky was still off doing things that Logan didn’t want to think about.

But the reporter and photographer were a different story.

The reporter, Andrea-something, came up the steps behind him, her heels sounding like a persistent woodpecker. She was persistent about getting this story, too, and if Logan hadn’t wanted this article to promote his new business venture, he would have sent her and those heels clacking.

The photographer, whose name Logan didn’t bother to catch, lagged along behind her while he adjusted his camera. Occasionally, the photographer scratched his balls, too. Logan wasn’t opposed to ball scratching, but even that sound was amplified so it seemed as if the guy was scratching a hundred chalkboards.

“We’ll just need a few more pictures,” Andrea said in between the clacking-heel sounds.

She was a reporter for one of the San Antonio newspapers, and even though she’d already interviewed Logan at the office, she had insisted on snapping a few pictures here at the ranch.

“One picture,” Logan said. He used the tone that he knew would set her teeth on edge. He knew all the tricks for doing that because people with their teeth on edge didn’t stay in his face pestering him.

Trying to make as little noise as possible so he could buy himself some time with the migraine, Logan opened the front door.

And the first thing he saw was the naked woman.

“Ta-da!” she said, and then a split second later she shrieked louder than a horde of banshees with bullhorns.