Something Borrowed

Chapter 19

Josh

Unlike Brent and Melissa, Josh had a treasure trove of crystal-clear memories of their mother tucked away inside his head. He could conjure her voice and a picture of her face just by closing his eyes. He could remember the taste of her pork ribs and mashed potatoes, and when his mind glazed, skating over some mundane chore, he often found himself humming her favorite song. For all that his father had made the better part of his life a living hell, the poignance of his mother's memory had always been bolstering-- a gentle hand on his chin, tipping it up every time he felt his shoulders begin to slump.

"You're my sweet, brilliant boy," she had said every night as she tucked him in. "Never let anyone tell you you're worth less than your dreams."

And he hadn't, even when she died and everything went to hell in a tattered, moldy hand-basket. When his father had stopped sending him to school with Brent and Lisa, he'd stolen books and read them by candlelight. When he was banned from the dinner table for slew of ever-pettier offenses, he'd fed on his righteous anger. When he was written out of the will and relegated to menial labor on the ranch, he'd made it his life's goal to be the best goddamn ranch hand around so the drunken fool would have no choice but to promote him. When he was beaten, he never cowed. When he was told God loathed him, he rested comfortable in the knowledge that the Lord may have forsaken him, but he had plenty of earthly friends.

Josh Tucker had no shortage of confidence, no shortage of strengths, and no shortage of friends.

So why the hell was he standing in the corner of the crowded hall, nervous and unsure, sweating like a boy before his first kiss?

Beside him, Amelia leaned against the wall, her gloved fingers curled around her upper arms as she studied the mill of dancing bodies. The room stank of smoke, sweat, and perfume. It was making him nauseous, and he wasn't the one growing a human inside him.

"Do you want to go outside?" he asked, and she shook her head, smiling shyly at him.

"I'm having fun," she said, hooking a tentative hand through the crook of his elbow. "Watching is fun."

"Would you like to dance?" It physically pained him to ask again. He'd already asked, when they first arrived, and she'd made up some excuse about not knowing the steps. He knew she was lying. Everyone knew how to waltz, and he'd seen her body swaying with the music as they stood by the wall. She was a natural dancer, and he was damn sure she knew how to waltz, but what good would it do to press?

"Sure," she said, her voice tight with nerves. What did she think he was going to do? He sighed and offered her his hand, ignoring the juvenile tingle of awkward anxiety that twisted his stomach when his fingers closed around hers. He led her to the center of the room, and a bizarre mess of emotions wound up his gut. Pride, at being the man to escort this woman onto the dance floor. Shame, at only having secured her hand through his brother's idiocity. Anger, at the men who leered at her shapely form. Love, at...

Oh...

When the hell had that happened? Love. Sometime between her sweet, clumsy curtsy in the dining room that first day and this moment, when he pulled her into his arms to the melody of fiddles and guitar, he'd fallen in love.

Fool. She tolerated him at best. Was a friend at most. What the hell was he thinking, falling in love with the woman?

"Sorry," he mumbled as he stepped on her toes. He was a good dancer, dammit. What the hell was happening to him?

She giggled, gently squeezing his shoulder, where her hand rested. "Barely felt it," she promised, peering up at him. Her eyes were an impossible, cottony shade of blue, and a tinge of pink colored her cheeks. Her lips were painted an unnatural red, but he knew beneath the waxy veneer, they were a perfect rosy pink. Delicate beads of sweat decorated her hairline, and he wondered what it tasted like.