In Emmylou's Hands

“We’re not gonna stay, but we’ll need a few things.”

Bentley drew a long sigh as she pulled the overnight bag from her closet.

* * *

“...YOUR LEG?” JOE WAYNE finished his sentence, wishing he hadn’t as he watched the guy’s face turn the color of a pomegranate.

“Shark bit it off while I was surfing.” He leaned down and scratched a red welt on his foot.

“No shit? Hot damn!” Joe Wayne had always admired surfers. They looked so cool, riding waves like bull riders of the sea. He’d never been able to keep his balance on one of the suckers. Probably because the only time the urge hit him to try was after he’d had a few. “You still surf? You one of those guys they show on TV who suck it up and go ahead and do everything they did before?”

“Nope. Shark might be wanting dessert.” The houseguest pounded his fist on the cuff above his prosthesis before performing an about-face and heading toward the front of the house. “Get some clothes on, will you? You look like a damn fool.”

Joe Wayne followed him toward the front as far as the family suite. Then he let the guy go on ahead to the living area...or, more probably, the bar, where he’d surely been when Joe Wayne showed up. Joe Wayne was ready for another drink or two himself, but getting rid of this string between his legs was the first priority. How did women stand the things?

He punched the code in, fumbling the keys out of the container. When it opened, he let himself into the large set of rooms, sighing at the mess he and Ramona had left when they’d vacated and moved to her house. His intentions had been to come back and clean it up. But he hadn’t found the time yet to work it into his schedule. Not that his schedule was full—he had zero gigs this week—but cleaning house wasn’t his thing.

A pile of his dirty clothes still lay in the bottom of the closet where he’d left them. Dirty had never smelled so good. He slipped out of his boots—damn, his feet were tired—and into a pair of his jeans and his own T-shirt. And thank God he’d left his guitar here...a precaution after Ramona had picked it up one night and threatened to smash it across his head if he didn’t fix her another drink. Damn mean woman when she was drunk. But then, he’d never seen her totally sober, either.

All the way to the beach house, he’d pondered how he could retrieve Patsy and the rest of his stuff without getting his ass whipped.

No stroke of genius had hit him yet. Maybe what’s-his-name would have an idea.

He shuffled down the hall and found his new best friend with a whiskey—no, that was clearly a bottle of Four Roses, so make that a bourbon. “You get into Dad’s private stash? He’ll skin us both.”

The stranger shook his head. “Brought this myself.” His tone said he wasn’t sharing, either.

Joe Wayne considered going back to the room for the keys. One of them unlocked the liquor cabinet. But he’d left some beer in the fridge, and right then, a cold one sounded okay. “Dad drinks Four Roses, too. Says anybody who drinks it must be a Southern gentleman.”

No response, but the former surfer shifted his weight onto his artificial leg and rubbed the top of his good foot against it.

Joe Wayne attempted to pry him into conversation again. “What’s your name, anyway?”

The stranger squinted like he was figuring on whether or not to give out that information before he finally answered. “Sol. Sol Beecher.”

“Joe Wayne Fuller.” Joe Wayne held his hand out.

Sol cocked a half grin before shaking. “Yeah. We’ve already met.”

Joe Wayne rounded the bar to get to the refrigerator. “So you’re a friend of EmmyLou’s?” He grabbed a beer and popped the top, guzzling half of it in one gulp.

Sol snorted. “I wouldn’t say that. I won a raffle. A week here at the house was the prize.”

“You know her, though? EmmyLou?”

“Yeah. I know her.”

Not much of a conversationalist, this Sol Beecher. But he finally broke the silence. “You her half-brother? Or...has she been married?

Joe Wayne finished the beer. “Nope.” He grabbed another.

“Her last name is Creighton. Yours is Fuller.”

Joe Wayne took only a sip this time. “Creighton’s her middle name. Fuller’s her real last name. She started using Creighton ’cause she didn’t want people to...” Shit! Running his mouth off—giving up his sister’s secrets to someone he didn’t even know. “Oh hell, just ignore me. I’m drunk.”

Sol looked him squarely in the eye. “And you’ll need to be hitting the road soon.”

“Yeah, about that. Seeing as how you seem to be here all by your lonesome...” Joe Wayne glanced around but saw no evidence of anyone else. “You’re here by yourself, right?”

“Right.” Sol set the glass on the bar harder than necessary. “And I like it that way.” He leaned down and scratched the top of his foot again.

“You’re doing a powerful lot of scratching.” Joe Wayne steered the subject away from his sleeping place for the night. Figured he’d approach it again later. “You get wasp stung or something?”

“Jellyfish. Three places. They’re not stinging anymore, but the itching’s driving me crazy.”

Joe Wayne gave a sympathetic shake of his head. “You showered before you treated ’em. Don’t ever do that—makes ’em worse.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.” Sol gritted his teeth and hit the bar with the end of his fist. “Got me on the cheek of the ass, too.”

Joe Wayne’s laugh earned him an angry glare.

“I went through the kitchen looking for meat tenderizer—”

“That ain’t what you need. You need—” Joe Wayne stopped. “Tell you what. You agree I can stay here tonight and I’ll tell you how to get rid of the itch. It’s three o’clock now. A few more hours can’t be so bad, can it? You’re gonna sleep through them anyway.” He gave Sol a huge grin. “Unless that damn itching keeps you up all night.”

A look came into Sol’s eyes that Joe Wayne recognized. Defeat. “All right,” Sol snapped. “Just tell me what to do.”

“I’ll do better than that. Wait here and I’ll get you the cure.”

Joe Wayne went to the kitchen and retrieved one of the giant bottles of vinegar they kept under the sink just for jellyfish stings. He trotted back up the hall and presented the bottle to Sol. “Get in the shower and pour this on the spots full strength. Let it stay on for a few minutes and then soak in a hot tub for twenty minutes. Itching’ll be gone.”

Sol grabbed the bottle of vinegar and his refilled glass of bourbon. “Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Joe Wayne waited until the door to the downstairs guest suite closed. Then he got a glass out of the cabinet. “Twenty-five minutes alone with a bottle of Four Roses?” He poured a hefty couple of shots into his glass. “Don’t mind if I do.”

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_065b3c09-ee2c-5781-89fb-885e38905dc5)

SOL BANGED ON the door of the family suite. “Joe Wayne!” He bellowed the name. “Time for you to get up. Rise and shine.”

“Go ’way,” came the muffled grumble.

Sol had slept with the windows open, lulled into deep relaxation by the sound of the waves, and hadn’t woken until after eleven. He could never live here because he’d become a beach bum, for sure. Obviously, that’s what had happened to his uninvited guest.

He opened the door and barged in. “That’s my line. Time for you to get up and get out of here.”

Joe Wayne lay sprawled on his back in the same position Sol had left him when he half carried him in here, much too inebriated to make the journey from the bar on his own.

The young man covered his eyes with his hand. “Turn off the damn light!”