“I kind of wondered the same thing myself, believe me. My father is putting me in charge of the new oil business in this part of the state. He’s hoping that I don’t go back into the service, but I’m on the fence about that. I have moved my travel trailer into that little RV park between the Tumbleweed and Dell City. I’ll live in it for a year.”
My mind spun around in warp-speed circles. I planned to be long gone before a year passed, and yet, looking at him, I had the strangest desire to stay.
“Why a year? Will your business move after a year?”
“No, it could even expand. It’s just that I promised my dad I wouldn’t go back into the military for a year,” he answered.
“Does that mean we’ll be seeing more of you at the Tumbleweed?”
“Probably not in the café. I’ll be on the job from daylight to dark—but I will need a friend, so after I finish the day, we might get some time to talk. If you would be willing,” he said.
A waitress brought over a menu and silverware for each of us and took our drink order. I hadn’t planned on eating, but I had enough money in the bank now to buy a meal.
“Hungry?” Jackson asked.
“I didn’t think I was, but the tacos look good.” For the first time in years, I didn’t have to check the price of the food to see if I could afford to order.
“Well, I’m starving. I was so busy setting up the trailer that I didn’t have time for lunch. I could go for a double order of enchiladas.”
Was this a date, or just a chance happenstance? The question made me think about living in the present no matter where I was. Having female friends was ... I wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence—but I wondered what it would be like to have a guy friend.
“Tell me about yourself,” Jackson said.
“Well, I’m thirty years old, and I’ve been a professional gambler under the name Clara Williams for more than half of my life. I’m Carla Wilson the other half of the time. That’s about it. Your turn.”
“You know my name, though I only have the one. I’m thirty-eight years old. I spent twenty years in the military, and that’s the basics. I don’t tell anyone any more than that on a first date.”
“This . . . is . . . not . . . a date!” I protested.
“Then that’s all the information about me that you get the first time we break bread together.”
I made a dramatic show of looking around the table. “I don’t see any bread.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when the waitress brought our drinks and a basket full of corn bread muffins.
He grinned. “What were you saying about bread?”
“I stand corrected.”
“Y’all ready to order?” the waitress asked.
“I’ll have the taco plate,” I said.
“I want the big platter of beef enchiladas with cheese sauce on top,” Jackson answered and handed both menus to her.
“Those come with beans and rice. That okay?” she asked.
We both nodded at the same time.
“Have it out in a few minutes. Enjoy the corn bread and honey.” She pointed to a container on the condiment tray at the far end of the table and then rushed off to wait on more new customers.
Our hands brushed against each other when we reached for a hot muffin at the same time. I didn’t know how it affected him, but I felt another rush of heat. Hoping it was only the warm bread and not hormones, I tried to ignore it. This was not the time to get romantically involved with anyone—not when I was still figuring out whether I wanted to stay or go.
“So, your family is in the oil business?” I asked.
He slathered a muffin with butter. “Yes, and the land where we have started setting up to drill is right up next to the New Mexico border. I’ll be going to work early and leaving my office after the café is closed ...” He shrugged. “But I’ll be free in the evenings. Maybe we can meet up for coffee sometimes?”
“I’d like that. Give me your phone, and I’ll put my number in it.”
