Where There's Smoke
“—that you can laugh over later.”
“Laugh?”
“I know what the men think of me. They think I’m a dried-up old maid. Muley told me that they laugh at me behind my back. You’re trying to suck up to my brother—”
“Now hold on just a goddamn minute,” Bowie interrupted angrily. “I don’t suck up to anybody. Got that? And leave your brother out of this, because he doesn’t have a friggin’ thing to do with why I said what I said. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about what any of the other men think. I make up my own mind about things, and if somebody disagrees with my opinion, well then screw ’em. When I told you you looked pretty, it’s because I really thought so.
“God a’mighty! Most women would have said, ‘Why, thank you, Bowie. What a nice thing to say,’ and let it go at that. But not you. No. You gotta read something into it ’cause you’re prickly and prissy and have a burr up your butt the size of Dallas.”
His words reverberated in the air between them before the wind snatched them away.
But not soon enough, Bowie thought dismally. His self-control had snapped, something he’d thought would never happen with her. He’d lost his temper and shot off his mouth. He’d fucked up major big this time. Now she’d fire him, and the fault was all his.
She faced him, wide-eyed, tremulous, and speechless. Tears had made pools of her blue eyes, pools deep enough for a grown man to drown in. A small shudder rippled through her. She drew in a quick little breath that brought her lower lip in fleeting contact with her teeth.
It was too damn much.
Figuring that at this point he’d just as well be hanged for a sinner as a saint, he bent his head and kissed her. It was a hard and swift kiss. It had to be. Any minute now she might start screaming. Besides, he didn’t trust himself to linger and taste. He might do something really stupid that would land his sorry ass right back in jail.
The instant he pulled back, he turned her about and shoved her up into the truck. He climbed in on the other side, turned on the noisy motor, engaged the grinding gears, and guided the truck over the deeply rutted track.
They rode in silence all the way back to the ugly company office, where he’d picked her up. After he killed the engine, the silence was as engulfing as the heat that rose from the ground in shimmering waves.
She was probably still too distressed to speak, so it was up to him to say something. For several moments he stared through the dirty windshield, then said, “I’ll take the truck back to the shop and turn in the keys. You can mail me my final check.”
He heard her swallow, but he didn’t look at her. He couldn’t bear to see her disgust.
Finally, in a feeble voice, she asked, “Are you leaving Tackett Oil?”
He looked at her then, turning his head so quickly that his neck popped. “Aren’t I?”
“Do you want to?”
“Don’t you want me to?”
She shook her head and, in a barely audible voice, said, “No.”
He didn’t dare move for fear of shattering the fragile mood. “Those things I said, Miss Janellen… I never should have used that kind of language in front of you.”
“I grew up with two brothers. I know all the words, Bowie. And what most of them mean.”
She flashed a gamine smile, but he didn’t return it. “That, uh, that other—kissing you—well, that’s grounds for firing me for sure. But I want you to know that I only did it because I lost my head.”
“Oh.” After a moment, while the silence and tension and heat thickened, she added, “Then it was purely an impulsive gesture?”
Something in her eyes compelled him to answer truthfully. “No, I can’t truly say that it was, Miss Janellen. I’d thought about doing it before.”
“I’d thought about it, too.”
He couldn’t believe what she’d just said, yet he was looking straight at her. He’d watched her lips form the words, and because his loins had filled with liquid fire, he knew he wasn’t dreaming.
But it only got better.
He shifted slightly. She tilted her head inquisitively. Then they met somewhere in the middle of the bench seat. Within seconds of her soft declaration, he was holding her against him, her arms were twined around his neck, and they were kissing madly.
Her lips were responsive but shy, which was okay because Bowie wasn’t an experienced kisser anyway. He’d never had a woman of his own, and easy women and whores usually skipped the kissing part. So he and Janellen tutored each other, and when his tongue slipped between her lips and connected with hers, they both murmured in delightful discovery.
Was her mouth actually sweeter than any other woman’s he’d kissed, or was it that she was the first he’d french kissed with caring and not only as a hasty prelude to getting laid?