by Mae Nunn
“I kinda figured that, but so has everybody else in town.”
Startled by Sam’s blunt observation, she grudgingly admitted he was probably right. Her black city clothes seemed out of place in Beardsly and her skin was crying out for something light while the air-conditioning unit was being replaced. Still, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
“My wardrobe is none of your concern.”
“Suit yourself.” Sam executed a smooth about-face to head in the direction of his friends. He shot back over his shoulder, “If you wanna spend the summer looking like an undertaker, what do I care?”
Undertaker? She snorted at the insinuation. Just because a person wore black, it hardly labeled her as a mortuary manager. Black was elegant. Black was slimming. Black was…too hot!
Fresh from the shower, Tara stood in the open door of her darkened closet. Her fingers slipped along the wall in search of the switch plate. A flip of the plastic lever coated the room with glaring light from an overhead globe. She squinted in the brightness.
As her eyes adjusted, she faced the full-length mirror on the opposite wall and grimaced at the sight of her body in baggy shorts and a tank top. Years of eating on the run and lack of exercise had added pounds to her tall frame. Under the harsh light, her bare arms appeared fleshy and pale, full thighs were in need of sun and physical activity. The all-black wardrobe concealed her flaws well.
“Exactly why I never wear anything else,” she admitted.
For the millionth time, she pondered the mystery father who must have been a man of some stature. Her mother and grandmother had both been slender, so the constant struggle with twenty extra pounds in her adult years must have come from the paternal gene pool. It wasn’t fair. Girls should take after their perpetual-motion mothers, not their couch-potato fathers. Making a mental note to look into a gym membership, she clicked off the light.
When the phone jangled in the hallway, she abandoned the effort to wangle her thick wad of hair into a twist. A female voice cancelled the loan officer’s appointment, but confirmed the funds would be available within twenty-four hours.
Going back to the steamy confines of Bridges was out of the question. The free afternoon was a sign she should do something productive. Something useful. Something she was good at.
Shopping.
First stop, Lacey’s Closet, the one ladies’ boutique in town. Right out of college, Lacey had opened the store, to the excitement of the young women of Beardsly. Of course, there was always Shoppers’ Mart, but Tara had sworn never again to buy clothes at the same store where a customer could also purchase a side of beef or a truckload of mulch.
Next stop would be the big flea market over in Longview. It was open until dark the first week of each month. She smiled at the thought of haggling over musty pine chests and scarred sideboards. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any spiders lurking in the drawers.
“Wear your hair down.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to Tara in so long, she was surprised by the casual suggestion.
“When we were kids I always loved your hair. Why you insist on bunching it up like that is a mystery to me.”
Without waiting for permission, Lacey removed the large pins that secured the heavy twist, and auburn curls fell in a soft cascade around bare shoulders.
The likeness in the three-way mirror was becoming. Capri pants weren’t a new fashion statement, but they were a novelty to Tara’s ultra-conservative wardrobe. The stretch denim fabric hugged in all the right places while leaving a flash of pale shin exposed.
“That yellow blouse is yummy with your hair color. It’s so feminine.”
“You sure? I thought redheads shouldn’t wear yellow.” Tara admired the contrast of her hair against the buttery linen, sure the scoop neckline was too daring.
“Of course they can.” Lacey reached for a pair of hand-decorated sneakers. “Here, try these. You can’t put those black flats back on or you’ll look like a dweeb.”
Tara slipped into the trendy shoes, enjoying the colorful appeal. It was a good thing she was headed outside the city limits, otherwise she’d be too self-conscious to test the new look.
With a bright blue T-shirt and a pair of crisp khaki shorts in her shopping bag, she climbed back into the mammoth sedan and headed for Rent-a-Heap-Cheap, the one truck rental in town.
“It runs great as long as you keep pouring in the oil, Miz Elliott. There’s a case behind the seat. Be sure you add a can or two when you stop for gas.” The rental agent smiled, slammed the door of the eighties-model pickup and waved Tara out of the gravel parking lot.
Rearview mirror adjusted, seat belt tightened, she headed south on the Longview Highway. A half hour into the drive, the truck began to sputter. A red light flashed in the cracked dash.
She steered to the shoulder of the road, catching a glimpse of her watch. Three thirty. No need to get excited. Some kind farmer would stop to render aid if she couldn’t get the truck started.
First things first, she hoisted the creaky hood, a universal sign of motorist distress. After a struggle to pull the seat forward, she located the promised case of motor oil. A can opener hung from a string tied to the gun rack. She punched V-shaped holes in the tops of two cans and carried them to the front of the truck.
Now what? Stretching up on tiptoe, she leaned over the workings of the engine and tried to figure out where to pour the dark goo.
As the Deuce glided around the bend, Sam wondered what malfunction had stalled the old truck, fifty yards up ahead. When he spied the woman, poised on the balls of her feet exploring beneath the hood, the truck was soon forgotten.
He slowed and appreciated the sight the woman made; her shirt was the color of a caution sign, but it was the luxurious rust-colored hair spilling over her shoulders that caused the involuntary clenching of his fingers on the wheel. He came to a screeching halt at her heels.
He watched the shoulders sag and the head give a shake of resignation as the woman realized the identity of her Good Samaritan.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” he taunted, removing his helmet. “Need help again, little lady?”
Holding both cans of oil, Tara straightened. Careful not to whack her head on the hood, she twisted to face him. The color in her face was already high from leaning over the warm engine. The pink tones deepened.
“Very gallant.” Her eyes narrowed. “Would you please help me get this truck started so we can both be on our way?”
“Aren’t you even going to ask me what I’m doing here?”
“Okay,” she sighed. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been in Longview getting the word out about Sam’s Cycles’ grand opening. I even mentioned your place a time or two.”
“I would appreciate it if you’d let me handle my own affairs.”
“Hey,” he held his palms out. “If you don’t want the free publicity, no problemo.”
“I’m sorry,” Tara apologized. “I’m renting this clunker by the hour and I need to get to Longview myself to catch the last day of the flea market.”
He leaned the bike against the kickstand and slid off.
“What makes you think it needs oil?” he asked. He rounded the truck bed and pulled open the driver’s door.
“That red light on the dash was a dead giveaway.”
He leaned out the window to get a good look at Tara.
“Did you also notice the red light that said you were out of gas?”
She closed enticing blue eyes and shook her head, a small but definite admission of guilt.
“No. The guy I rented it from mentioned adding oil when I stopped for gas. I didn’t realize I was supposed to stop so soon since rentals usually come with a full tank.”
“Well, the good news is, this is easy enough to fix.” He relieved her of the oil cans, then moved to the bike and snapped a spare helmet off the back. He held the protective headgear out to Tara, enjoying the incredulous look on her face as
she realized his intentions.
“Oh, no.” She backed up, trapping herself between the truck’s grill and his approach.
“Oh, yes. I’m not leaving you alone beside the road.”
Then he gave in to something he’d longed to do since the day a grown-up Tara Elliott had stepped foot into his classroom. Sam tucked thick strands of hair behind her delicate ears, slowing long enough to enjoy the sensation of silk against his skin. Fingers lingering longer than necessary, he stared into azure depths that darkened at his touch.
Unsettled by his emotions, he recovered from the tender moment by squashing the helmet over Tara’s head, careful of her exposed ears. Her mouth popped open preparing to object, so he secured and tightened the chin strap.
“You are wasting your time, Sam. I have no intention of getting on that thing.” She pointed a shaking finger at the powerful machine.
“Scared?” he taunted.
“I’ve never been scared of anything in my life.”
“How about spiders?”
“Okay, there’s that,” she conceded, “but otherwise I’m fearless.”
“Then there’s no problem. Let’s go.” He stepped to the truck to collect her pocketbook and keys, and locked the dented door, not that anyone would think to vandalize the battered old work truck.
Approaching his reluctant passenger, he admired her in the colorful outfit. “Rusty,” he said, smiling broadly at the picture before him. “You are some firecracker.”
Tara’s lips curved in a shy smile but the look in her eyes said she didn’t quite believe the compliment.
He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the bike where he stowed her belongings in a leather pouch. She stood to one side as he secured his helmet, settled himself on the seat and brought the engine to life.
“Put your left foot on that peg and throw your right leg over the seat behind me.”
Worried eyes passed across Sam and the bike.
“What are you looking for?”
“Where do I hold on?”
Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “Put your hand on my shoulder while you climb on and then wrap your arms around my waist.” He might as well have a little fun. “And you’ll need to hold on tight to keep from being thrown off the back when we hit bumps.”
Mortified, she backed away from the bike. The look of trepidation on her face was priceless.
“I’m joking. Get on and feel free to hold on, but not out of fear.” He revved the engine and she responded by hopping into place and throwing her arms around his middle.
He rolled the throttle and her arms tightened as the bike roared onto the quiet country highway.
Anticipation curved Sam’s lips into a sly smile. The woman was a tempting target and the afternoon presented some unexpected possibilities for payback.
Chapter Five
Tara clung to Sam as if her life depended on it. Chin tucked, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, she held her breath and braced for the inevitable moment when she’d be hurled into space, her life snuffed out against a tall Texas pine.
She felt a rumble of sound where her chest was pressed against Sam and realized he’d spoken. She didn’t dare raise her head to respond, but held on tighter.
Again the rumble, this time followed by the warmth of a comforting hand placed over the death grip she had around his taut stomach. He patted her clenched knuckles, then gave them a little shake.
Even maintaining her stiff posture she couldn’t ignore the light massage he was administering to her rigid wrists and forearms. The message was obvious. Loosen up.
Chest aching from holding her breath, she exhaled through dry lips and then inhaled slowly to fill deflated lungs. Along with the oxygen came the scent, the very essence of Sam. An appealing mixture of morning soap and afternoon heat stole into her nostrils and tickled her senses.
“Well, do you like it?”
Her eyes flew open, revealing a blur of scenery streaking past them at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour.
“Do I like what?” she returned his shout.
“The ride. Isn’t it great?” Sam angled his head to keep his eyes on the road while his words flew over his shoulder.
“I feel like I’m riding a guided missile.”
“We’re only going the speed limit. You want me to show you what she’ll really do?”
“No!”
His roar of laughter coaxed a trembling smile to Tara’s lips.
Sam pointed to a sign indicating an S-curve in the road up ahead.
“When we go into the curves, lean with the bike. Got that?”
As she nodded understanding, a right-hand bend in the road closed around them and he accelerated, angling the handlebars and his shoulder toward the pavement. Heart pounding with pure terror, she followed his lead. She gripped Sam’s middle, molded her body to his and leaned with him into the curve. Before the squeal in her throat could escape, the bike entered the bottom of the S-bend and the two humans moved as one with the machine.
The few seconds it took to navigate the double curve seemed an eternity. The moment they were once again perpendicular with the road she opened her mouth to release a scream.
But Sam beat her to it.
“Yee-ha!” he shouted, and punched the air with his fist.
Tara understood his exhilaration.
“You okay?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. It was an endearing sound.
“I’m okay,” she confirmed.
“Then let’s make time.”
She turned out to be a good sport, a revelation that dampened Sam’s devious intentions. In fact, he was pleasantly surprised by the woman who’d once been so reluctant to try anything new.
Although he had important calls to return to associates in Houston, he made the spontaneous decision to take Tara straight to the flea market instead of stopping at the first gas station they saw. If she preferred to do otherwise she was keeping her opinion to herself.
He took the parkway around the business district and made it to the fairgrounds well before the early birds began to pack for the drive home. The gate attendant waved them through, pure longing on his young face for the classic bike. Sam idled the bike into a shady spot and cut the engine.
“How’d you manage this?” Tara gestured toward the VIP parking sign.
He tugged at his helmet and slid off the seat. “You’d be surprised at the special treatment these motorcycles get. And that’s why they’re going to sell.”
Tara handed over her headgear, apparently oblivious to her light case of helmet hair.
“But aren’t these things expensive?” She grasped his outstretched hand and he hauled her to a standing position.
“They’re not cheap, but there are bargains to be had and I intend to offer great terms.”
“You’re not going to use your connections are you, Sam? Grandmother would never have given you this opportunity if she’d thought for a moment you were involved with someone dishonorable.”
Taking a step closer to Tara, he stared down into her eyes.
“Someone dishonorable,” he repeated flatly. “You mean the kind of person who would use their good fortune to take advantage of others? You mean someone who might lie to serve their own purposes?” He watched her blink hard at the description. “Well, that’s the connection I have right now, don’t you reckon, Rusty?”
He didn’t back away and she wouldn’t look away. Color swept over her throat, highlighted by the bright-yellow blouse. As crimson streaks snaked across her skin, she made no effort to do her silly breathing exercises. When the warmth reached her face, she took a small step closer, pressing the tip of her index finger into his chest.
“Listen, Sam, I tried to explain and you wouldn’t give me the chance.”
“And I’m not going to let you explain it today, either.” He brushed her finger away. “You can live with the consequences of what happened, just like I have.”
“You think I haven’t?�
�� She bristled. The heat infused her cheeks. “I’ve lived with it every day for nine years.”
Arms folded across his chest, he leaned back to study her. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” He glanced down at his drug-store wristwatch. “You’ve got a while before they close, so get going. I’ll meet you back here in two hours.”
The upward jerk of her chin and the sudden glistening in her eyes told Sam nothing was settled. But it never could be as far as he was concerned.
Tara splashed cool water on her face and dabbed it with a coarse paper towel. She ran shaking fingers through flattened hair, disgusted with her pitiful attempt to be feminine.
How on earth were they supposed to be partners when they couldn’t even be civil? Did they stand a chance of helping the economy of a small town when they hardly stood the chance of being friends? What in the world was her grandmother thinking when she came up with this scheme?
Tara pushed the troubling thoughts aside. At the moment there was a more pressing issue to address. She needed to secure a few eye-catching pieces to act as the central focus for her grand opening, only weeks away. She considered temporarily moving some of her own antiques from the house to the shop, but she wanted everything on display at Bridges to be for sale.
No matter what the price, parting with the exquisite furnishings in Sycamore House was not an option. Yet.
Several times already, she’d made that clear to the persistent Houston dealer who had called almost daily since Miriam Elliott’s obituary had been picked up by the Chronicle. The incredible ensemble of furniture, showcased in both Texas Living and Southern Comfort magazines was the envy of collectors across the state. At a well-advertised sale, it could fetch a prince’s ransom. She hoped she’d never have to resort to that plan.
She shook her head, dismissing the very idea and began to weave her way up and down the long marketplace aisles. Dealers from surrounding states brought everything from silver to stained glass, cheap pine nightstands to Chippendale chairs.
The third-generation owners of The Heritage had hired her for her broad knowledge of collectibles, and her countless hours of study would pay off at these regional markets.