Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

  Revenge. That was what she wanted. And she’d waited four long years for this chance.

  But at the moment, there were more important problems to consider. Like how to get out of here before the whole place turned into a melee.

  Tamara glanced at the salesman. He caught her eye steadily, and she put as much pleading as she could into the glance. He stood up and backed away. No one paid him any attention.

  Lance looked up, a lock of that bright hair falling over his eye. There wasn’t an iota of fear his face, she noted with a little panic. Was he that stupid?

  “Hey, Gus,” he drawled, and Tamara would have sworn there was a twinkle in those blue eyes.

  Tamara couldn’t stand it. “Don’t you dare have a fight in my bar,” she said. “Not if you ever want to drink here again.”

  Gus looked at her. “Nothing personal, Tamara,” he said regretfully. Fast as lightning, he turned and threw a punch. Lance ducked, but not quite fast enough. A fist caught him across the eye.

  “Stop it!” Tamara shouted.

  Lance came up swinging, barreling into Gus with a grunt, and driving him backward into the wall. Two framed pictures of trout crashed to the floor. From the back room came the sound of the jukebox, kicking into a rowdy, loud country-western song.

  It covered the noise of the fight. It was only Gus and Lance, roaring and tumbling over the space of the dance floor, knocking chairs and tables askew. The rest of the construction workers simply stood sentry at various doors and made sure no one else jumped in.

  It happened so fast there was no time to react in the first few seconds, but as the two men spun around the room like a couple of brawlers in an old-time saloon, knocking things down, crushing furniture, Tamara lost her temper.

  “Stop it!” she yelled again, and tried to round the bar, shoving at the man who blocked her way with a furious hand. “They’re trashing the place!” she cried. “Break it up.”

  He didn’t move. Tamara backed away, and heard another crash. She whirled and saw a table go over, spilling salt and pepper. A tall jar of sugar crashed to the floor. She stared at the mess blankly for a second, thinking of how much work she’d have to do when these idiots quit their wrestling. Dinner would be late again, and she had an accounting test in the morning to study for.

  Without a second thought, she jumped on to the bar, and then to the floor, vaguely planning to head for the door—or at least the pay phone near the rest rooms.

  She dodged the guy closest by her, ducking down low to avoid him, and slipped out of his reach. Feeling victorious, she straightened to run for the door—

  —and a fist came from nowhere and slammed into her face. The force of the punch landed right below her eye. Stunned, Tamara tumbled backward, feeling hands catch her as she fell.

  Chapter Two

  “Damn it, Gus,” Lance said, eyeing the pretty bartender, who now was sprawled on the floor, her hand cradled to her face. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  Lance was trying to get out of this without hurting the big dumb dog, but the bartender was the last straw. Lance turned, doubled back and landed an elbow to Gus’s midsection. The air whooshed from him. Lance called up his famous left to the face—you didn’t brawl with an older brother for a decade without learning a few tricks—and a right to the gut. Gus went down.

  His friends moved forward. “Don’t,” Lance said, wiping his mouth. A little blood, but not bad. He licked it experimentally, breathing hard from exertion. “One of y’all needs to go get the manager right now, or clear your butts outta here before the cops come. No point in all of us going to jail tonight.”

  They weren’t as dumb as Gus, and most of them were likely in deep trouble with their wives for drinking up their paychecks as it was. They disappeared, leaving Gus grunting in the middle of the floor.

  The woman sat on the floor by the barstool, blinking, her hand covering the place on her face where Gus had punched her. Lance knelt. “You all right?”

  The bewilderment hadn’t worn off yet. She blinked those great big cat-green eyes at him as if she didn’t speak his language.

  He reached out, and she drew back, wincing, as if she would be hit again. He paused. “I just want to see if you’re hurt, okay?”

  Still she stared at him without comprehension. He moved slowly, reaching for her hand, which she held protectively over her cheek. It was a long-fingered, slim hand. Elegant in shape, but work worn. He carefully lifted her fingers from her face. “I’m just going to look at it, honey.”

  She lowered her eyes, turning her face away. Lance caught her chin and lifted it toward the light. A blazing red mark showed across the cheekbone. By morning, it would be a big, ugly bruise, and she’d have a shiner like a brawler.

  He grimaced. “I know that hurt.” A taste of blood struck his tongue, and he wiped his cut lip quickly. He took her hand and pulled her up. “Let’s get some ice on it right now.”

  She let herself be led to the end of the bar. “You’re bleeding,” she said as he grabbed a bar towel.

  “It won’t kill me.” He filled the bar towel full of ice and twisted the ends, then lifted it to her face.

  “That really hurt,” she said.

  It still hadn’t sunk in. Lance wanted to get out of there before it did—she struck him as a woman who might be dangerous if her temper were engaged.

  But a part of him was reluctant to leave just yet. Up close she smelled faintly of margaritas and the clean sweat of a woman’s hard work, but there were lingering notes of some kind of light, flowery perfume. Not too sweet—maybe lavender. His mother grew banks of it along the back porch and he’d always liked the scent of it on an evening wind.

  “You want to sit down?” he asked.

  “For a minute.”

  He pushed her onto the stool behind the bar, and quickly poured a glass of water that he put beside her. “I’m gonna have to get out of here before the sheriff comes to haul me to jail. My mother’s gonna kill me as it is.”

  “Your mother?” she echoed. “Men like you don’t have mothers.”

  “Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong.” A stab through his ribs straightened him suddenly. He grunted, putting a hand on the place where Gus’s beefy fist had landed all too solidly. “We do. They just despair of ever civilizing us.”

  Her smile bloomed then, one more time. The pink lips curled, slowly, and a light wash of color touched her pale cheeks. Her entire face was transformed from the slightly defensive hard look of bartenders who had to deal with men like him day in and day out, and became something else. Something sweet he hadn’t even been aware of missing.

  “You’re really pretty, you know it?” he said, and impulsively touched her unmarked cheek.

  She only gazed at him. Still stunned.

  Sirens sounded distantly and Lance looked over his shoulder. “That’s my cue.” From the pocket of his jeans, he took a roll of bills and peeled off several, which he put on the bar next to her glass of water. “Give that to Allen and tell him I’m sorry. Take care now.” He winked. “I’ll be back.”

  As he leapt into his car, hearing the sirens come closer, he remembered he’d forgotten to leave a tip.

  * * *

  Louise Forrest was in her element. As weary as she was from attending to what seemed like hundreds of details for her husband’s burial, she felt perfectly calm as she lifted the lid on a bubbling pot of black-eyed peas. The bacon-scented steam made her mouth water. She smiled. The peas were for her youngest son, Tyler, who could never get enough of the Southern treat she’d brought with her as a seventeen-year-old Texas bride.

  In the oven was a ham baked with brown sugar and pineapple, for Jake, her oldest. And in a big bowl in the fridge was the fruit salad made with whipped cream that Lance loved.

  Her boys. It was hard to believe they’d all be home, together. She literally couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  Mary, her housekeeper, bustled into the kitchen. “Louise Forrest, what ar
e you doing? You can’t keep going like this! You’ll collapse.”

  “Don’t be silly. Cooking relaxes me.”

  “It isn’t natural for a new widow to be so calm.” Mary frowned. “I’m worried about you.”

  Louise turned. “I wish you’d stop insisting I should take to my bed.” She lowered her voice, for Jake and Tyler sat in the other room, watching the television news. “I’ll mourn my husband in my own way, in my own time.”

  Mary sighed loudly, but tied an apron around her waist and made preparations for setting the table.

  Louise frowned. Mary knew as well as anyone that Olan had barely shown his face within these walls for almost five years. She could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually slept here in that time. Louise had gone back to college and Olan, in a snit, took a mistress.

  She would mourn him no more and no less than she’d mourn any old, but distant acquaintance. She wished it could be more, but the marriage had been hollow for a very long time.

  The rumble of a big car engine sounded in the yard behind the house. Louise wiped her hands, hurried to the window and spied Lance getting out of a sixties Ford, lovingly restored. Her heart pinched—poor Lance. Of all of them, he’d mourn his father most sincerely. A part of her was glad that Olan would have someone to regret his passing, even if he’d done his best to drive this child away.

  It was only as Lance slammed the door and turned toward the house that she realized he’d been fighting. Her mouth tightened. He looked like a tomcat that had just crawled out of the bushes, his beautiful hair tangled, his clothes disheveled, his mouth bleeding. There was something white wrapped around his knuckles.

  “Been at it again, hasn’t he?” said Mary, behind her.

  “I reckon.” Nonetheless, Louise smiled. Her boys were home.

  * * *

  Lance climbed the back steps carefully, a stabbing pain in his ribs. He hoped none of them was broken. On the next to the top step, he remembered the presents he’d brought for his mother, and limped back down to retrieve them. Carrying a grocery store bouquet of red carnations laced with baby’s breath—her favorite—and a box of chocolate-covered cherries, he climbed back up the steps.

  His nephew Curtis, small and blond and round at three, was the first to greet him. The boy blasted through the back screen door, leaving it to slam behind. “Uncle Lanth!” he cried, and let go of the chortle peculiar to little kids, an unthrottled joy that always struck right to the bottom of Lance’s heart.

  Lance knelt and caught Curtis by the legs. “Boy,” he grunted—gasping at the sharp stab in his right side, “you’re getting too big to carry! Where’s your grandma and your dad?”

  “Inthide.” His big blue eyes went wide and he folded his little hands solemnly. “Grandpa’s in heaven.”

  Not likely, Lance thought, but he kissed Curtis. “I know, slugger.”

  Curtis gingerly touched Lance’s cut lip. “You have an owie? Grandma gots Band-Aids. G.I. Joe.”

  Lance laughed and nuzzled his face into Curtis’s chest. “I missed the hell out of you, boy.”

  They went inside together, into the kitchen that was now crowded with the family waiting for the last of their fold. Lance’s mother hugged him first, smelling of her trademark Chanel perfume. She exclaimed over the flowers and tsked happily over the box of chocolates. “You know I don’t need this!” she protested, gesturing at her ample hips.

  Then she slapped his arm. “You couldn’t wait three days to have a fight, huh?” she said with a frown, peering at his lip.

  “I swear, Mama, I didn’t start it.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Tyler, his younger brother, from the doorway. His little brother, who now stood taller than any of them.

  Lance frowned. “Hell, man, you going mountain man on us?” Ty’s pale blond hair was long, caught back in a ponytail, and there was a shadow of light beard on his jaw. “Don’t be trying to grow a beard and make a fool of yourself, now,” he said, and hugged him, pleased when a smile broke Ty’s all-too-serious expression.

  The last to give him a welcome was Jake, as dark as his brothers were fair, his hair months past the military cut he’d sported for almost twenty years. “Hope the other guy looks worse,” Jake said ironically.

  Lance thought of the bartender with a twinge of guilt. She was the only real victim in the whole thing. “He went down first, anyway.”

  “Go get cleaned up,” Louise said. “Supper is almost ready and I don’t want to be waiting on you.”

  Impulsively, Lance bent and kissed her cheek. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Come on, Curtis, you can help carry my suitcase in.”

  “Okay!” In little cowboy boots, Curtis clunked after him.

  Home, Lance thought, breathing deeply of the gathering evening that fell in the backyard. The sun lingered in a pale yellow haze behind the jagged mountains towering around the house, and a few birds clung to the pines, their whistles a wistful sound in the air that suddenly had a deep bite to it.

  Home. Thank God.

  * * *

  Tamara had the worst headache in the history of the world, and Cody wasn’t doing much to help. She’d managed to get him fed—applesauce with macaroni and cheese out of a box—No one was giving her mother of the year any time soon. Now he was in the bathroom and she sat on the closed toilet in her little house, supervising, thinking with exhaustion of the test she yet had to study for. Accounting—her worst subject. She hated math.

  “Look, Mommy!” Cody cried, pointing to the circle he’d drawn on his taut four-year-old tummy with a blue soap crayon.

  “Beautiful,” she said with a nod. “Come on, kidlet, hurry up. I need to wash your hair.”

  “No,” Cody protested, covering his blond curls with his hands. “I hate that.”

  “I got new shampoo. It won’t hurt if you get some in your eyes.” Tamara picked up the bottle of baby shampoo to show him. On Saturday, she’d had to use some of her own shampoo. Cody had gotten into one of his silly moods while the shampoo was in his hair, and it had burned his eyes. “See?” She pointed to the label. “That says it won’t hurt.”

  The doorbell rang. Tamara frowned in surprise. No one ever came to see her. She was, frankly, too busy to have time to indulge the nurturing friendships required. “Don’t move,” she said to Cody.

  She walked to the doorway of the bathroom, her eyes on Cody, and called, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” came a door-deadened voice. “Lance Forrest. I was in the fight at the bar this afternoon.”

  Lance Forrest. For a minute she bit her lip. “What do you want?”

  “Just to make sure you’re okay.”

  Even through the door, she liked the sound of his voice. Warm and not too dark, with a hint of a country drawl. Something unidentified moved through her. Annoying.

  “I have a present for you,” he called when she didn’t answer.

  She rolled her eyes. “Give it to your mother.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Cody put the soap in his mouth. “Cody, quit that!”

  He made a face and tried to wipe away the blue soap on his lips.

  “I already gave my mama a present,” Lance said. “Come on, Tamara. I feel bad.”

  Cody bent his face toward the water. Tamara called out, “Oh, come on in!” and made a dash for the tub. “Let me help you, honey.” She fished a washcloth from the water and wiped away the blue soap. “There.”

  She heard the front door open, and thought immediately of her clothes. An old, oversize T-shirt and a pair of sweats that had seen better days. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d brushed her hair. No help for it now.

  “In the bathroom, straight ahead,” she called.

  Defensively, she smoothed her shirtfront and pushed a lock of hair out of her face. She had to be crazy, even letting him in.

  “Hi,” he said, coming around the corner. He’d changed clothes since this afternoon, and wore a pair of button-fly jeans. He’d evidently worn them since time
began, for the color was bleached nearly white, and the fit was practically indecent. The sinfully streaked hair glinted as brightly in the bathroom light as it had in the sunshine this afternoon, but now it had been brushed and his jaw was clean-shaven. His shoulders seemed to fill the doorway.

  For one instant, a moment filled with pure, unadulterated longing, Tamara wished she’d never heard his name. Then she’d be free to explore the promise that shimmered around him like an almost inaudible song.

  But she had heard his name. All too often. And had learned to hate it.

  From the bathtub, Cody chirped a cheery “Hi!”

  Lance gave the boy a crooked smile. “Howdy!”

  A strange nervousness rolled in Tamara’s stomach, unexpected and worrisome. She looked at Cody. Blond and blue-eyed, his face was baby round, but would one day have the same carved planes as his father. His father, who was proving much harder to hate in person than in her imagination. Tamara hardened her resolve. For her cousin Valerie and the son she’d borne, Tamara could face the devil himself.

  She looked at Lance. “That’s Cody,” she said. Would he see anything of himself in the boy? Probably not. You didn’t see what you didn’t expect. There were millions of blond, blue-eyed boys in the world.

  “Hey, Cody. I like those tattoos.”

  Cody lifted an arm and flexed his thin muscle, making the white Power Ranger figure move his legs. “Lookit what he does.”

  “Cool.” Lance hadn’t moved from the threshold of the door, and now half lifted a small grocery bag in Tamara’s direction. “Brought you something.”

  There was no amusement in his face now, no secret twinkle in the blue eyes. He looked…worn. Even so, it was the most singularly compelling face she’d ever seen. Strong bones, a beautifully shaped nose, the bright blue eyes made even brighter by the depth of his tan.

  “I guess I caught you at a bad time,” he said, and licked his swollen lower lip.

  “No worse than any other,” Tamara said. “What do you want?”

  “Who are you?” Cody asked.

  “My name is Lance.”