I Gave You My Heart, but You Sold It Online Page 2

  “I’m happy,” the morose girl said. “I just want us to be a family, a real family, Mom. I want a mother and a father. I want the three of us to go places and do things together. I’m the only one in my class that doesn’t have a father.”

  Allison didn’t question this. Jill’s seventh-grade class was made up of only eighteen kids and Allison knew every parent. She also knew that some of them were miserable in their marriages but hell-bent on staying together. Their upbringing in Salt Lick demanded as much. Couples might not speak a civil word to each other, they might lie and cheat, but there were few divorces. Few stains on the family fabric under the spotlight of a small town.

  The logic to that kind of life was lost on Allison, but she couldn’t expect a twelve-year-old girl to understand that the two of them were better off as they were. At the moment, a greater worry nagged at her. Her daughter had been communicating with a stranger on the Internet. She had given him their home address. Allison stepped back and sank to the edge of Jill’s pink frilly bed, taking a pink stuffed cat from its resting place and hugging it to her as she tried to sound calmer than she felt. “Tell me more about this person you’ve been communicating with. How did you come to meet him?”

  Jill turned in her chair, facing her. “I joined an online dating service.”

  Allison could only blink. She didn’t know her daughter even knew about online dating services. For that matter, she knew next to nothing about them herself. True, she had heard a couple of her customers speak of dating via the Internet. Well, this was just too absurd. “Those sites cost money. How did you do this?”

  “Grandma’s credit card. It’s only for ninety days and the first month was free.”

  Allison’s jaw clenched. Her mother’s involvement was no surprise. Ten years after finding herself suddenly a widow, Lydia Barker, fifty-five years young, had rediscovered sex. Thanks to Allison taking over the dress shop, Mom had newfound freedom to explore life. She had joined a square-dance club for singles in Midland and for the past year had been do-si-doing with a plumber named Frank. She was loving life again and had told Allison numerous times that she should be doing the same. Unable to keep her eyes from narrowing, Allison asked, “How did you use your grandmother’s credit card? Is she a part of this?”

  “Grandma agrees with me,” Jill said, “but she doesn’t know about online dating. I told her I wanted to buy you a present. I didn’t lie. Not really.”

  “You’re twelve years old. How could you join a dating service?”

  “I didn’t. I mean, it’s not, I’m not—Well…”

  “Jill, please tell me you didn’t enter me in this dating thing.”

  Jill didn’t answer. Her face puckered again.

  “Jill?”

  “I scanned one of your pictures and answered a bunch of questions and stuff. I answered like I thought you would.”

  Dismay widened Allison’s eyes. “Good grief, Jill—”

  “You got a lot of responses and this guy was the best.”

  Allison sat up straighter. “I did? I got responses? Really? What picture did you scan?”

  “My favorite. The one of you at your senior prom.”

  Dear God. The way Allison had looked in her new frilly pink dress twelve years ago had lured an irresponsible teenage jerk from hiding. What had it caught the attention of this time? “Good Lord, Jill. I was a child. What is this guy, eighteen? Or worse yet, a pedophile?”

  Allison thought she could actually hear the clatter of Jill’s eyes rolling in her head.

  “No, Mother. He’s old. Thirty-five or something like that. What’s a pedophile?”

  “Never mind. How could he not know he was talking to a child?”

  “Mother. I’ll be thirteen in ten months. I can carry on a conversation like an adult.”

  Allison had to agree. She and her mother had always treated Jill as an adult. Consequently, the child was comfortable in adult company and was years more mature than her peers. But a single, thirty-five-year-old man looking for “companionship” had to be really looking for sex.

  “Did he ever mention, uh, I mean, has he ever brought up the subject of, uh—”

  “Sex?” Jill asked. “Once. But I told him I didn’t like talking about that stuff. He wrote back that I was sweet and he liked that I was naive.”

  While Allison wondered if she should call the sheriff, Jill turned back to her computer. “Want to see his picture?”

  “Heavens, no. I don’t care what he looks like. I’m not going out with him.”

  Jill struck a key on the keyboard and turned to face her mother again while a sheet of paper slowly rolled out of the printer. “But, Mom, you’re never going to meet anyone in this town. The only people you’re around all day are women. The only men you see are the ones shopping for their wives. I’ve heard you say it a hundred times.”

  True. Allison had spoken at various times about the lack of men in her life. And at this moment, she wished she had used more discretion in letting Jill hear her.

  Her daughter’s expression grew more serious. The drama queen again. “You know, Mom, you’re not getting any younger. Grandma says you’ll never be any better looking than you are right now.”

  “Hmm. I’ll have to thank Grandma personally for that one. What else has your grandmother told you?”

  “She said you’re so jaded by your past experience you’ve forgotten how to live. What does jaded mean, Mom?”

  “It means I’m definitely going to have a talk with your grandma.”

  Jill thrust the black-and-white printout toward her mother. “Here, look at his picture. Isn’t he cute?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Allison said, glancing down at the printout now in her hand. A cowboy. Great. She had been surrounded by them all her life. They were a living, breathing, hard-partying part of the West Texas social scene. The romantic notion of a hero on horse back rescuing her from her dull existence had died years ago. Not that cowboys weren’t fun. Tight butts in tighter Wranglers had been the downfall of many a well-intentioned female. Allison was so glad she had matured beyond that.

  The picture was a little grainy and the black-and-white print didn’t reveal a lot of detail. “I swear I’ve seen him somewhere. Probably on America’s Most Wanted. Or in a wedding announcement in the newspaper.”

  Allison studied the photo that looked so familiar more carefully. But how could she have seen him before? “How do we know this is even his real picture?”

  Jill’s face brightened. “Maybe he’s famous and rich! Maybe the only way he can meet someone that isn’t after his fame and money is to find someone who doesn’t know who he really is.” The twelve-year-old closed her eyes and lifted her shoulders. A dreamy smile played across her lips. “Isn’t that romantic?”

  Allison’s brow knitted as she continued to study the printout. She had definitely seen this man before…And, damn, he was really cute. “Do you even know his name?”

  “Just his online name. Desperado.”

  Oh my God! Allison had a driving urge to close the curtains and bolt the doors. “Jill, when he gets here, if he gets here, I’m going to tell him the whole story and send him on his way. I’m not—”

  “Noooo,” Jill wailed, as if in pain. “Puh-leeze, Mommy. Just talk to him. He’s nice. He used to be in rodeos. He rode bulls. He doesn’t have any kids and he said he’d like to have a home and family. He might like you.” She fell against her mother with a fierce hug and began to sob. “He might want us, Mom.”

  Allison felt like a heartless shrew. She supposed she could meet the guy outside on the porch, sit down and have a conversation. Lord knew, in her younger, wilder days she had met men in riskier situations…Hadn’t she? “Shh, now. Quit crying. I’ll meet him. But only for a little while, okay?”

  I’m also keeping a baseball bat near the porch swing in case I need to defend myself.

  Jill’s tears dried at once. She leaped to her feet, grabbed Allison’s hand, and began to tug her up the
hall. “C’mon, Mom, I’ll help you find something to wear.”

  The thought flitted through Allison’s head that she really should get this kid into acting classes.

  WHILE THE MOUTHWATERING aromas of meat slowly searing over smoldering mesquite coals, fresh ears of corn steaming to tender, golden perfection, and tangy coleslaw tossed with pecans in a secret dressing swirled around him, Tag Freeman tasted a pungent barbecue sauce. He took a few seconds to savor the flavors—fresh chilies, chili powder, honey, vinegar, tomato sauce, even a little strong coffee. He gave his cook, Rafael, a thumbs-up.

  From the very beginning of the cooking process, Tag kept an eye on the food served in his restaurant. His strict oversight began when he purchased a prime beef or pork carcass from a purveyor of fine meats. His attention went from there to the butchering and trimming of said carcass, to the secret seasoning he rubbed and massaged into the meat by hand, to the moment a rasher of tender, succulent brisket or a glistening rack of ribs was lovingly laid on a heavy white crockery plate.

  Most of the time, every item on the menu of Tag Freeman’s Double-Kicker Barbecue & Beer had his personal seal of approval before being served to the ever-growing crowds of customers frequenting his dining establishment. At one point, he had been so particular he had done his own butchering. A poor meat-cutting job could ruin a good piece of beef quicker than a cut cat.

  While Tag knew the food was delicious, he also realized that as much as the quality food he served, the crowd attractor was himself. His customers wanted to see him and talk to him. He didn’t mind a bit. He intended to capitalize on his fame as one of ProRodeo’s greatest bullfighters while it was still in the forefront of the public’s memories.

  Nor was his business harmed by the fact that on any given night, a country music star or a ProRodeo champion might drop in and give customers a chance to rub shoulders with celebrity. To night, one of his oldest and best friends from his rodeo days, Quint Matthews, had called and said he was coming for dinner. Typically, with Quint, that could mean he might show up within the hour, in a day, or sometime this year, but the guy had also said he had a date in Salt Lick. Knowing how Quint was about women, Tag had a hunch he would stick to his schedule to night.

  Untying his apron and pulling it over his head, Tag winked at Rafael. “I’m gonna leave ’er to ya, compadre. I’m stepping out front, but I’ll be back to help you out if you need it.”

  “No problema, jefe.”

  No problem, boss. Tag laughed at the young man’s confidence. Only a twenty-year-old kid could undertake a new task with such a devil-may-care attitude. Tag had been twenty years old once himself—nearly twenty years ago.

  And he had once walked without a limp, he thought as he rounded the long stainless-steel counter on his way to the dining room. A freak accident had ended his rodeo career and changed his life. He had been standing in the wrong place when, with no warning, a top shelf collapsed in a Save-A-Buck Discount City retail store and an avalanche of John Deere hedge trimmers, leaf blowers, and chain saws had struck him and fractured his back and hip. If he hadn’t had lightning-quick reflexes honed by the years in his profession, he might have been hurt worse. Or he might not have survived.

  In the early days after the accident, there had been a fear he wouldn’t walk again, but Tag’s iron will and a blessing from God spared him from being wheelchair-bound for the rest of his life. Every day he said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

  He’d had to sue, of course. His medical bills were enormous, his livelihood destroyed. He would never again step inside a rodeo arena as a bullfighter. He would never again bring home an enviable paycheck. He still collected a few endorsement fees from flush sponsors, but that well would dry up soon.

  In the Midland courtroom, his lawyer had shown videos of him throwing his body between bull and rider, a superb athlete performing unthinkable feats with amazing agility. The video then switched to images of him in physical therapy learning to walk again. His lawyer had followed up by pointing out to the jurors that the same thing could have happened to any of them or their loved ones. The panel found “gross negligence,” and the judge had ordered the giant retailer to pay handsomely.

  Tag missed his former profession—the adrenaline rush that went with matching wits with a wily animal ten times his weight, the satisfaction accompanying the knowledge that he had saved some young man from being seriously mauled, maimed, or even killed. He missed the kinship of ProRodeo, the rough and raucous camaraderie of cowboys. He missed the excitement of the crowds and the attention of the ladies.

  But he had already faced the fact that Tag Freeman’s days as a ProRodeo bullfighter were over. Now he caressed a safer and less violent mistress: cooking.

  three

  Debbie Sue Overstreet pulled her truck behind the Styling Station. In the nearly five years she had owned and operated the beauty salon, she had made this wide sweeping turn into this parking space more times than she could count, yet she still looked forward to doing it every day. She owed the feeling in large part to her partner and best friend, Edwina Perkins-Martin.

  Edwina was more than her best friend; she was also her therapist, often applying the cold, hard slap of reality to Debbie Sue’s stubborn chin. And she provided comic relief that kept Debbie Sue and the Styling Station’s customers laughing.

  Debbie Sue gathered her insulated lunch box, a stack of magazines, and her purse and slid from behind the steering wheel. Entering the Styling Station’s back door, she heard Edwina’s voice. “Well, Darlene, if that’s what you want to do, that’s fine. Last I heard, cash was still accepted in most places, so I don’t think the Domestic Equalizers should be any different.”

  Mentally running through a list of the Darlenes she knew, Debbie Sue determined Edwina was on the phone with Darlene Duncan, the latest Domestic Equalizers client. They had helped the poor woman locate the focus of her cheating husband’s diverted attention. The person with whom he had been canoodling had resided right under Darlene’s nose all along—her brother’s wife. It hadn’t taken Perry Mason to figure that one out.

  As Edwina hung up, Debbie Sue set her armload down on her workstation. “What did Darlene want, a refund?”

  “Naw, she was just asking if she could pay us in quarters. She’s been saving them up for a while from her vending machine route. I told her not to worry about it. Quarters spend just like real money.”

  “Ed, her fee was three hundred dollars. What are we gonna do with all that change? Did you tell her we accept credit and debit cards?”

  “Sure did, but she says she cut up all of her credit cards,” Edwina answered between gum smacks. “She’s afraid of identity theft. Said she’s been learning about it from TV news.” The hairdresser blew a bubble the size of a baseball. She had taken up chewing wads of bubble gum to distract her from smoking.

  “Why would anyone want to steal Darlene Duncan’s identity?” Debbie Sue asked as she headed toward the storeroom refrigerator with her lunch. “Most people don’t want to claim they even know her.”

  Edwina laughed.

  Debbie Sue returned to the salon’s front room, buttoning a bright blue smock. “Speaking of identity theft, did you see the newsletter from the bank? Stolen credit cards and identity theft are a big deal.”

  “I read it. Living where we personally know everybody who hands us a credit card, you just don’t think about stuff like that happening. But Vic knows a lot about it.”

  “Naturally,” Debbie Sue said. Edwina’s husband, Vic Martin, was a retired navy SEAL. He knew a lot about everything.

  “Well, he does know a lot,” Edwina said with a touch of prideful indignation. “Just because he’s retired doesn’t mean he forgot everything or doesn’t keep up. He says credit-card fraud is one of the ways terrorists get money to blow up stuff.

  “He told me something else, too. You know how waiters and waitresses in the city restaurants always want you to give them your credit card and tell you they’ll be your cashiers
? Vic says there’s this little electronic gadget where they can store a credit-card number when somebody gives them one to pay for a meal. Then they can use the number to buy things and get money.”

  “Wow,” Debbie Sue said, frowning and mentally deciding to pay cash in restaurants in Odessa and Midland from now on. How unprofessional would it look if a private investigator had her identity stolen?

  “It’s so scary,” she said. “Just last week I saw on the news where they arrested this guy in Dallas. He stole nearly a million dollars using other people’s credit cards. He was in prison, mind you, and a bank had prisoners processing credit cards. When he got out, he had all these people’s numbers and the secret codes. In prison, they taught him how to beat the system.”

  “I don’t have to worry,” Edwina said. “Anybody steals one of my credit cards, they’re SOL. Every piece of plastic I’ve got is within about ten dollars of being maxed out.”

  “On TV, they said a lot of people have stopped using credit cards. Have you noticed a drop in customers paying us that way?”

  “Maybe a little, but I just assumed they couldn’t use them because they hadn’t paid their bill.”

  “Hmm. Well, just remember, since you didn’t get a credit card from Darlene, when she hauls that bushel of quarters in here”—Debbie Sue pointed a finger at Edwina—“you have to roll ’em.”

  “Me? Why the hell should I be left with that job?”

  “Because you told her we’d take ’em.” Debbie Sue gave her an evil grin. “Of course, it could be worse. She could have asked us to take one of those goats she raises. Then it would be you and Vic who would have to keep it in your backyard. Rocket Man would not like to share his pasture with a goat.”