Fool's Gold

HQN Books

"MAGGIE"S YOUR SISTER." Desperation crept into Carl

Felman's voice. "You tell me what I'm supposed to say to her."

Tyler Braxton suppressed a shudder. What man truly knew how to talk to a woman? "Maybe if I understood the problem better, I could help." He had grave doubts that would be the case. Marital issues were not Brax's area of expertise. If Carl wanted advice on how to take down a fleeing suspect without firing a shot, he could help. But advice to the lovelorn, especially to his brother-in-law? A scary thought for any male.

Brax had arrived in Goldstone, Nevada, that morning with a mission. To answer Maggie's call for help. The tone of her e-mail had been dire enough to have him make arrangements for a visit. Because a short vacation fit neatly into his schedule for other reasons, he hadn't bothered asking Maggie for any specifics.

He hadn't figured he'd be entering a war zone. Admittedly, it was a silent war, with both sides refusing to meet at the bargaining table, or, for that matter, even talk to their opponent. In other words, The Cold War all over again. Despite staying at ground zero, Brax didn't have a clue how to negotiate a peace settlement. "I'm afraid she doesn't want me anymore." Carl's chin drooped close to the foam on his beer, and his usual goofy grin was nowhere to be seen. "I don't excite her."

"Please don't let this degenerate into the lowdown on your sex life." His sister's sex life. God forbid.

"This isn't about sex." Carl sighed long and hard.

"It's about our marriage."

Country music strained through the worn-out speakers, barely making it over the ka-ching of a slot machine in the back of the bar. The once-padded chair he sat in had long since lost its resilience beneath too many butts. The tabletop was gummy with age, elbow grease and sweaty palms. Brax had thought going out for a friendly beer down at the Flood's End might ease the tension. He'd been wrong. Being county sheriff back in California was a cakewalk compared to this, but he would do his duty to his sister. Even if he'd rather be breaking up bar fights.

"How long have you and Maggie been married?" His question was rhetorical; Brax knew exactly how long. The Las Vegas wedding in Dr. Love's Chapel would forever live in his memory. Maybe the pink flamingos flanking the altar had something to do with that. Who in their right mind would want lawn ornaments at their wedding ceremony?

Carl took his time before replying, "Ten years."

"Well, things can get a bit routine after ten years." A wild guess, since Brax had gotten divorced after only five.

"That what happened to your marriage?" Carl asked.

Damn. He'd opened himself wide for that one.

Brax sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Then he gave it his best shot, because that's what his sister needed. "It's all about communication, Carl." Something he'd never been able to do worth a damn. At least not where women were concerned.

"We communicate. She says do something, and I do it." Carl shook his head as if he were totally mystified.

"What more does she want?"

"Women don't want you to just agree with everything. They want you to?" What? Brax started over.

"They want you to help them find the solution that works for both of you."

"But she always ends up with the same solution she started with, no matter what I suggest. It's like talking in circles. So why do we have to go over and over it for an hour?"

Damn. Brax didn't have an answer. He was out of his depth here. "It's the talking things through that makes them feel better." That sounded like a reasonable explanation to him.

"She just wants me to say, "yeah, you're right, honey," after she proves how I'm wrong."

Sometimes it did seem like that, but Brax was sure women didn't mean it that way. "When in doubt, just listen. Women want to be heard." Now that was his exwife almost verbatim. He'd never heard, and he took full responsibility for his lacking.

Carl leaned forward. "But if I'm supposed to listen and not say anything, then how is that communication? Doesn't it take two?"

Christ, he was digging himself a bigger hole with every word of advice. Best to stop while he was?well, he couldn't call it ahead. "You need to read that book."

"What book?"

Uhh? "One of those 'how to' books." How not to flush your marriage down the toilet. "It's got something about the planets in the title."

"Did you read it?"

Brax hadn't known of the book until after the divorce. "I've heard it's great." Though he didn't know any men who'd read it. "If I'm ever considering marriage again, I'll sure pick up that book." Not that he planned on taking that particular risk any time soon.

"Read it, Carl. It'll help."

He wasn't ducking his responsibilities here. He was simply handing Carl over to a greater authority.

"I guess I'll give it a try."

"Atta boy." Thank God. His duty was done. On to less dangerous ground. "Not very crowded here tonight, is it?"

Carl's glance strayed over Brax's shoulder, and not for the first time that evening. No small wonder when one considered the woman seated at the far end of the bar. Brax shifted in his chair for a better look.

Surrounded by three books opened flat on the bar top, she tapped a pencil against full lips, then hunched over to write furiously in a spiral notebook. Her blond hair fell forward, caressing her shoulders. Flipping a page, she underlined something, scratched out a line in her notebook and began scribbling again.

"It's Sunday," was all the answer Carl supplied. And Sunday in Goldstone meant what? The town's dusty streets had never been paved, the rusted hulks of dead cars outnumbered working vehicles two to one, and the only church Brax had seen was made of corrugated steel like the Quonset huts that cropped up in the fifties. He'd thought it abandoned due to the weeds choking its garden, but maybe that was a false assumption.

"You boys need a refresher?" the white-haired bartender called. A good salesman always asks, even when he sees half-full beers. Obviously, he considered theirs half-empty.

"We're fine, Doodle," Carl said, once more sucking at the foam that hadn't yet dissipated.

"What about you, Whitey?" Doodle tipped his head toward the lone man seated at the bar.