Clara Knows Best (Texas Wilders #1)

1

Clara knew she was looking her best when she entered the kitchen.

She was a firm believer in good first impressions, or whatever you called the impression you were about to make on the childhood crush you hadn’t seen since you were a gawky teenager. The tailored midi dress she’d worn to work might show that she cleaned up nice or was a productive member of society, and the picture she’d taken of it would be well-received by her followers when it was eventually posted, but it was all wrong for this mission. On the other hand, the trousers and sneakers she wore now said I look this good without trying , and that was important to her ego, because when she’d been a gawky teenager, he’d been a handsome, brooding medical student with great hair.

“I like that sweater,” her mother greeted her, hardly glancing up from the newspaper.

“Thanks! It’s my first time wearing it. You think it goes with hunter green pants?”

“Yeah, I do,” Dr. Wilder said, looking again. She was a pretty woman, slim and on the taller side of average. Her shoulder-length brown bob was always perfect, and she had an unflappable, scholarly air about her that people seemed to find either soothing or intimidating. She was a snappy dresser herself, in an understated way, so her opinion counted.

Clara glanced at the microwave clock and did some mental math. “Do I have time to make an iced coffee?”

“Definitely.”

They kept a carafe of strong brew in the refrigerator for the purpose. She filled a rose gold Stanley camp mug with ice, saying loudly over the noise of the ice dispenser, “I’m kind of surprised he wanted a ride.”

Dr. Wilder was turning a page of the newspaper. “He didn’t,” she admitted. “I had to insist.”

That made more sense. Jesse had never liked to be beholden—an understandable sentiment in a foster child.

On a whim, Clara chose a black mug for her passenger. She filled both with coffee and added simple syrup, half-and-half, and a drop of vanilla.

“All right, see ya,” she said to her mother, shaking both mugs to mix them.

Her mother lowered the paper and looked at her for a moment.

Clara did a 360-degree turn to show off the high-waisted, wide-leg trousers that she’d paired with a little crop top and an oversized cardigan.

A smile tugged at Dr. Wilder’s mouth. “Drive safely,” she merely said, and returned to her reading.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Outside, the Colonel’s shiny blue truck waited, the attached flatbed trailer behind it a not-so-subtle reminder that she had volunteered to pick up a month’s supply of alfalfa from a farm near Marfa and her father was trusting her with the mission.

She’d also be fetching Dr. Jesse Flores, her mother’s protégé, from the small municipal airfield.

Two birds, one polished little stone.

She climbed into the high cab, where she waited for the seat to adjust itself to her inferior height and weight. Her phone connected automatically and soon her driving playlist came over the sound system.

Jesse had been her parents’ first foster, and for Clara it had been love at first sight; he’d lived with them from the time she was nine until he left for college when she was twelve, and in those three years her crush on him had not wavered. She had been beneath his notice, of course, but like Don Quixote, happy to worship from afar.

After he moved out she saw him very occasionally, mostly on holidays and at graduations, but he had fallen completely out of touch in recent years. Her parents were oddly uncommunicative on the subject.

Warring emotions , she decided, was the term for her current inner turmoil. It was hard to believe that six years had gone by since she had seen him, and at the same time it felt much longer; she was curious to see how he had changed, and certain that he was the same as ever; she was embarrassed to recall her past infatuation and yet brazenly anticipating looking him in the eye.

The prospect of Jesse Flores in his thirties thrilled her for reasons she could not quite verbalize.

The forty-five-minute drive from the airport today would be the most time they had ever spent alone together and she was not sure what to expect. Would they make polite chitchat? Sit in sullen silence? She had never been very good at silences, but Jesse had not been a promiscuous talker. She didn’t think they’d ever really had a conversation beyond a dust-up involving his precious comic books, when he told her nine-year-old self that she was entitled and lacked boundaries .

She laughed ruefully at the memory as she merged onto the interstate; rather than being devastated by the criticism, she had basked in his undivided attention and found his absurdly disproportionate wrath adorable. Had it deterred her from entering his room without permission? Not at all.

It was just possible that she had been a total brat.

At the airport, she parked at the curb and went inside to wait. She was immediately hailed by the man behind the counter, and waved a careless hand at him.

But he called to her again, adding, “Long time no see! How’s your brother Hart doing?”

Reluctantly she made her way over. Earl was only a few years older than her and their mothers were friends. “Well, hey. Hart’s doing great, I think. I never talk to him.”

He laughed. “Still making the big bucks in NYC?”

“No, he’s in Austin now.”

“I just knew Hart would make some kind of big name for himself out there. So, you don’t see much of him, huh?” he asked with sympathy.

“Well, I think he’s coming in for my mom’s birthday next weekend,” she said, and good manners made her ask, “Why don’t you stop by the house and say hello?”

His face brightened. “Hey, I might do that. You think that’d be a good idea?”

“Well, sure.” She was used to the Hart worship by now, but she did think it was too bad no one ever asked after her other two brothers.

“Clara!”

Her head whipped around at the voice—a sharp, disapproving bark—and there he stood, frowning beneath the low bill of a worn-out ballcap.

Oh, no, he’s beautiful, she thought wildly. Somehow she had not been prepared to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with a chiseled jawline covered in rough, dark stubble. Jesse Flores in his thirties? Magnificent. Chef’s kiss.

“Ready to go?” he asked impatiently.

Was her mouth hanging open? “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I was having a flashback to the comic book incident.”

He jerked his head toward the door and her feet moved of their own accord.

“Bye,” she said to Earl, who looked interested but confused by this turn of events.

“Bye! I’ll see y’all soon, if you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said automatically, waving again as she stepped out into the sun. “Well, that’s us over there.” She indicated the big truck, and saw that Earl’s brother, Dale, loitered near it. His polo shirt identified him as airport security.

“Why, Miss Clara Wilder,” he drawled. “Shoulda known. Couldn’t think how your daddy would park in the red zone.”

“You going to turn me in, Dale?”

“Aw,” he protested, waving away this concern. “Whatcha got the flatbed out for?”

“Hay.”

“Thought y’all got hay from your uncle.”

“He didn’t have much surplus this year.”

“Been dry,” Dale agreed readily. “And Memo Del Amo had that fire, right at harvest time, too. Tough luck, I say. Wonder how it got started.”

“I haven’t heard anything about it,” Clara said, in the interest of saving time.

“Well, sure,” he allowed indulgently, and looked Jesse up and down with undisguised curiosity. “Who you got with you here?”

“I don’t know if you ever met. Jesse Flores, Dale Keplinger.”

“Sure, I remember you now,” Dale said, leaning in for a handshake. “From Dallas, weren’t ya?”

“Austin,” Jesse said brusquely as they shook. He opened the rear passenger door and tossed his bag into the truck.

Clara looked at Dale. “Well, see you around. Sorry about the red zone.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” he promised, and she smiled her gratitude.

Inside the truck, she started the powerful engine and watched with misgiving as her passenger silenced her Spotify with one ruthless jab. “You’re probably exhausted. Do you want an iced coffee? I brought an extra.”

“Bad for your gut,” he answered, reclining his seat.

She knew he referred to her intestinal health, but the word grated on her ears. “You know, it’s bad manners to talk about a woman’s gut.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“You aren’t my doctor.”

“All right, sorry,” he said, and though she was too busy navigating the exit lane to look at him, she suspected that he was amused by her reaction.

Amusement, even at her expense, was better than surliness.

As they merged onto the highway, she felt compelled to apologize for the lackluster scenery—the flat landscape on either side of them was dotted with small, dead-looking plants and otherwise looked bald; the mountains in the distance were low and hazy. It had been overcast all day, and everything that wasn’t gray was a dull brown. “Chihuahuan Desert in the winter’s not much to look at, huh?”

“It’s not much to look at in the summer, either. Did I yell at you about the comic books?”

She switched her empty coffee cup for his full one before she replied. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Are you dating Earl Keplinger?”

She had not been expecting the question, but deflected it deftly. “You want to talk about my love life?”

“No,” he said at once.

“Okay, then.” She almost laughed aloud— now who lacked boundaries?

He leaned forward and switched the coffee cups back. “Is this pumpkin spice or gingerbread or something?”

“No, just sugar and cream.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Sorry I’m cranky.”

“No problem.”

He took a long drink and then settled back, pulling his hat lower over his eyes. “The Keplingers are losers.”

“They sure aren’t doctors,” she agreed. And that, she thought, should teach him not to try the big brother act with her.

Jesse sighed slowly, like there was a lot he could say, but he was wise enough to change the subject. “So, what about you, huh? Last I heard, I think you were about to go to beauty school.”

“Hmm, that must’ve been a long time ago. I didn’t end up going.” She turned off the highway onto a dirt road, and clouds of dust rose around the truck as they picked up speed once more. She was surprised when he spoke again.

“Why not?”

She had to think back to what she had said last. “Why didn’t I go to beauty school? I think my dad talked me out of it. I don’t really remember.”

“Never too late.”

She glanced at him in amusement. Was he really giving her a motivational speech? He must think she was a Grade-A loser. “Uh, thanks.” She pulled up between the house and the barn and put the truck in park. “Well, we’re here. This should only take a few minutes. You can wait in here if you want.”

She hopped out before he could say anything else.

“Hey, Miss Mabel,” she greeted the woman on the loading dock. “Please tell me you have our hay.”

Mabel climbed carefully down and crossed the yard to meet Clara at the porch. “It’s here waitin’ for ya. Who’s that?”

Clara turned to see Jesse getting out of the truck. “Oh, that’s Jesse. He’s kind of a friend of the family. Jesse Flores, this is Mabel Rickles. Jesse lives in Austin.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and offered her his hand.

The older woman raised her eyebrows at Clara before taking him up on the handshake. “You two got anything going on?”

“I wish,” Clara retorted. “He’s way out of my league.”

Mabel liked that, and punched Jesse’s arm. Then she told them to sit tight and went inside the house.

“Still got a mouth on you,” Jesse remarked wryly.

“Fortune favors the bold,” Clara said righteously. It was kind of an unofficial family motto. “You know why she went in there, don’t you?”

“To get someone to load your order?”

“To call her sister and tell her that Clara Wilder’s driving around with some out-of-town hottie.”

“Am I a hottie?” he asked in surprise.

“To Miss Mabel you are,” she said with a grin. “And her sister Sherry’s the postmistress, so word’s gonna spread.”

“How do you know everyone in Marfa? Were you homecoming queen here, too?”

“I don’t know everyone . Earl and Dale Keplinger are from Romeo. The Rickleses are friends of Uncle Jim’s, and besides…they have hay.”

“And Memo Del Amo had a fire.”

“Yeah,” she said, her humor fading. “The drought’s been hard on everyone. Bad yields. Lots of fires last fall.”

“How’s Jim holding out?”

“He’s doing pretty good. He’s always prepared, you know? Wily. And he diversifies, so he can shift his focus if he has to.”

He was watching two men walking towards them from the barn. “All of you Wilders are wily.”

She had to smile at his grim tone. “Does that mean you know why my mom guilt-tripped you into coming out here?”

“I have a pretty good idea. Shut up, now.”

She rolled her eyes at the cautious command, and went down the steps. “Hey, Mr. Rickles! How’s it going?”

“Hiya, Clara,” the farmer said.

“Jesse Flores, Curtis and Jake Rickles.”

The men exchanged brisk nods and Curtis promised that he and his son would have the flatbed loaded with bales faster than a sneeze through a screen door.

“Sounds fast,” Clara said.