Bucking the Rules(23)

“I guess if you choose to not count those two annulments, then, hey—your math works.”

“What has gotten into you?” Regina snapped. “Your attitude is horrible.”

“Sorry.” Jo rubbed between her eyes with her thumb. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Oh, dear.” Regina tsked. “You need sleep if you want to look your best. No man wants to deal with a woman who has bags under her eyes.”

“Right, well, owning a bar doesn’t always lend itself to restful nights.” Nor do lusty dreams about unfulfilled promises from damn sexy cowboys.

“You could just work at a bar. Owning something is so complicated.” Regina’s goal in life was to avoid complication.

“I manage, somehow.”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Nope,” she lied without a second thought. Lying had become a way of life with her mother. If Regina hated complications, then really, Jo was just giving her mother what she needed. She never felt guilty about it. Regina would just stop contacting her altogether if Jo took a hard line.

“Did I tell you the story about that horrible woman who worked at that bar with us in Dallas?” Regina’s disgust was telegraphed loud and clear. “You must remember her. She was the one with all that hair like that snake woman from those stories. Anyway, I heard through the grapevine—”

“Mom?” Jo said loudly. “Regina? Can you hear me?”

“Josephine?” her mother called back. “What in the world—”

“Regina? Reg—damn,” she muttered, as if to herself.

“Must be a poor connection. If you can hear me, I’ll let you go now so you can go back and get to your … work.” Regina said the word “work” the same way some people might say “spiders” or “taxes.”

“Okay then. Let me know if I should be looking for a wedding invitation.” Which she would RSVP a big fat no to, but would send a nice gift. Just as she had the last four times.

Oh, sorry. The last two. Apparently two of those four weddings didn’t count in Regina math. Funny how those gifts never got returned though. Regina math was very one-sided.

“Will do. Love you, baby!” Regina blew noisy air kisses and hung up without waiting for a response. The only thing Regina was truly interested in was her next season’s wardrobe, and whatever adoration she could scrape out of the current cash cow.

Whoops. Husband.

Jo set the phone back down and made her way to the door. No point in dwelling on the Cleaver-esque mother-daughter relationship she would have killed for as a kid. The hand she was dealt would suffice. Besides. She was thirty years old. Did she really need her mommy’s approval and unconditional love at this point?

No. But it would have been nice….

Jo walked down the stairs with heavy steps. Sometimes, life was just too complicated to even think about.

No wonder people drank.





Trace checked his watch, sighed, then stared out the window behind Peyton’s desk. The desk—and the office it graced—had once belonged to their father. Though their father had been less of a businessman and more of a horseman himself, which explained a lot of why the ranch had been in such dire straits when it was passed to the three Muldoon siblings in equal shares. He’d tended the stock, not the books, which gave their mother free rein to run the numbers into the ground.

By the time their father was gone and Sylvia had full control, the debt had been impressive. After she’d had her way, it had become monumental.

But Peyton had definitely put her stamp on the place since. The dark wood would have seemed masculine if not for the touches of Peyton everywhere. More pictures than before. Books on animal husbandry and genomes dotted the shelves next to tomes of business marketing, capped by a few fiction best sellers.

And a pretty little figurine of a young girl with two braids riding a horse sat in a place of honor next to the computer. Trace knew Red had given the silly thing to her for Christmas. A year ago, Peyton would have scoffed at it and hidden it in some dark corner of a bookshelf. Instead, she’d gotten all teary and kissed the guy.

Figured.

“Where’s your sister?”

Peyton rolled her eyes. “I thought she was your sister this week.”

“Please. I can’t keep track of her for five seconds. Why does she have to be mine?”

Peyton kept typing an e-mail, using the time wisely. Trace couldn’t say the same for himself, but then again what was he supposed to do? He was a figurehead for the company, not involved in the business end. Nobody wanted him answering e-mails, not if they wanted to sound professional.