Wild Girl (Wild Men Texas #3) - Melissa Belle Page 0,29
his soul. Kind of like a lot of folks around here.”
“I guess it’s habit.”
“You could do so much more than this, you know,” he says to me after a long pause.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m scared of giving all this up.”
I stretch out my arm and gesture aimlessly around me.
“Why?” Ben asks me. “You mean The Cowherd? I know it’s been like home, but it’s not really you, is it?”
“Maybe not. But it’s what I know.”
“Are you ashamed?” he asks me out of the blue.
I whip my head over to him.
“I mean about your story,” he explains. “Like maybe you don’t want to share it with the world?”
“I’m not ashamed. Really. Maybe I’m a little uncomfortable putting it all out there. My weaknesses. My words. This summer’s been hard. The fact that the guy I…” I stop. “That the guy this town claims is Mr. Darcy is about to leave forever. But if the soul mates are a real thing and the ghost somehow goes free, it’s all good. Maybe we’ll get to see Daddy actually stay sober and in charge for once. That would be worth it.”
“You know you’re gonna have to let him go.”
I start. “Daddy?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“Logan?” I say almost breathlessly. “Who do you mean?”
“You know who I mean.” He kisses my cheek and stands up to leave. “Have fun at the bakery. See you in a bit.”
I watch Ben walk out to the pick-up truck he’s had since he first got his license. I don’t know how that thing still runs, but that’s Ben. Never quits on anything—or anyone— he cares about. As he starts up the engine and pulls out, I wonder. I wonder if he’d want it. I wonder if it might just be the perfect fit, much more perfect than it ever was for me. Maybe my dream really is sitting on my laptop.
I slip back into the bar to grab my purse. My father’s nowhere in sight as I glance up at the supposed photos of Jane Austen’s ghost.
“I know you didn’t demand that somebody lock you down and steal your crown,” I say softly. “Your crown wasn’t even something you wrote for.” Queen of romance, queen of anything; Jane Austen just wanted to tell a good story.
Chapter Eighteen
Mrs. Rattles starts frowning as soon as Elaina brings out the cake.
“You finished it already?” She glares at Elaina, who shrinks back. “The wedding’s not till Thursday! I bet Gigi’s cake isn’t finished yet.”
Mrs. Rattles turns on her heel and ushers Ginny and me out of the cake shop. “We’re going up to Austin to meet with some real bakers. Just the three of us, and we’re leaving first thing tomorrow. Whatever plans you girls have, break them!”
“Yes, ma’am.” I squeeze Ginny’s hand as we fall in line behind her mother. “The baby’s getting a real good vantage point of what his or her grandmother’s like, huh?”
“He or she is kicking up a storm.” Ginny puts my hand to her belly. “Kicking to get away from Mama’s shrieking.”
I laugh. “Smart baby.”
“I can’t talk,” I tell my mother the next day. “Mrs. Rattles is outside my door honking right now.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” Mama says. “Riley told me about your upcoming trip to Austin today. And it got me thinking—do you remember about twenty years ago, you were around four or five, and the Darcy Museum agreed to loan Vivian’s diary to that newfangled place up in Austin, the one that specializes in haunted buildings?”
“Um, no…”
“I sent for a brochure, and it looked quite interesting. They collect items from haunted buildings all over the world. It was Darcy’s first brush with statewide fame.”
“Is the museum still there?”
I open my door and wave at Mrs. Rattles. She replies with another loud honk.
“It’s been downsized to a pop-up,” Mama’s saying in my ear. “So it moves around.”
“Like a food truck?” I grab my keys and sling my purse over my shoulder.
“Yes. And I’m looking online, and it says that this week the museum will be on East 7th Street.”
The honking is getting steadier. And louder.
“Okay. But why would I go there, Mama?”
“I was going through Vivian’s diary again, and in one section, a sentence doesn’t match up to the next page.” She’s talking a mile a minute. “I looked closely at the seam of the book, and sure enough—ripped paper! Fitting, isn’t it? The capital of our great state could be holding such an important piece of evidence for the purpose of liberating a great author’s