by Fran Baker
Nowadays, the crossroads sat empty and useless, abandoned in the name of progress. Cattle trucks and tankers did their yeeowwing on concrete instead of on cracked asphalt. Tourists bypassed dust bowl museums in favor of Disneyland, and even the farmers found it more convenient to use the highway.
But every Saturday night, weather permitting, everybody and his uncle gathered at the crossroads, circling their pickups as their pioneer ancestors had circled their wagons. Campfires had given way to headlights and fiddles to truck radios, but the people still did their dancing under the stars.
Chance drove around in search of a parking place, finally finding one between a rebuilt El Camino and a rusting Ford Ranchero. “For a county that’s in the throes of a depression, they sure turn out a happy-go-lucky crowd.”
Joni experienced a flash of regret when he released her to cut the engine, a reaction she quickly quelled. Needing the space, she slid back over to the passenger side. “It’s fun and it’s free.”
“What more could a body want?” He left his headlights on and tuned his radio to the same country music station that everyone else was tuned to.
“A hairbrush,” she remarked wryly, trying to fingercomb her hopelessly wind-tangled hair.
“In the glove compartment,” he directed her, fiddling with the volume knob on the dashboard.
“Thanks, but …” She wasn’t too keen on the idea of using someone else’s hairbrush.
“Don’t worry,” he said perceptively, “it’s yours.”
She glanced at his dark profile against the glow of the other headlights. “Mine?”
“When I was helping Grandpa in the downstairs bathroom, I saw it sitting on the shelf.” He sat back and gave her that lazy grin that never failed to jump-start her heart. “I figured you’d refuse the scarf, so while Diamond Jim Brady was stacking the deck, I stuck your hairbrush in the glove compartment.”
“I see.” She pasted on a bright smile and got her brush out, but the thought of him handling her personal things made her insides feel like taffy melting in the sun.
“Here.” Chance reached over and took the hairbrush from her unresisting fingers. “Let me.”
Joni started to refuse, but the firm set of his jaw told her that he would brook no argument. She presented him her back, her pulses thrumming in time to the three-chord country song rising and falling and filling the night.
One long, slow stroke and she knew she was lost. He seemed to know it, too, as he brought the brush back up to the crown of her head and pulled it down with enough pressure to disentangle the heavy, snarled strands but not enough to cause her pain.
She’d never realized such a simple act could also be so stimulating. He touched her nowhere else, yet she felt the repeated tug of the bristles from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.
“You have beautiful hair.” He lifted it and sifted it through his fingers, letting it fall back to her narrow shoulders like spun cinnabar.
She nodded her thanks, not trusting her voice.
He set the brush on the dashboard and took hold of her upper arm. “Turn around.”
Against her better judgment she turned.
The music on the radio picked up a beat, as did her heart when his fingers captured her jaw.
“No, Chance.” She raised her hands to his shoulders, wanting both to push him away and pull him closer.
“Yes, Joni.” He kissed each corner of her lips and then traced the trembling line between them with the tip of his tongue.
She shut down her mind and parted her lips, surrendering to the power and the persuasion of a desire that had been too long denied. He matched his mouth to hers, a perfect fit, and seared her soul with a tongue of fire.
The ashes of emotion that she’d given up for dead flared to life, and she gloried in the blaze. But when the kiss ended and they drew apart, she knew it couldn’t happen again without her getting badly burned.
Chance dropped his thumb and middle finger to the pulse points just below her jaw, circling them slowly, as if magnetizing her blood to follow the movements of his hand. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day you came to the drilling site.”
Joni pulled back in a panic, her hands clutching his, stopping those clever fingers before they robbed her of the will to resist. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked gently.
She released his hands and scrambled back to the passenger side. “Don’t give me something to regret when you’re gone.”
He reached to bring her back. “How about something to remember?”
“I remember too much as it is.” Her softly worded reply stilled him as effectively as a siren’s blast.
A somebody-done-somebody-wrong song came over the radio as Chance retracted his hand and studied her, huddled miserably against her door. He understood then. That bastard she’d been married to had a long reach.
Swearing roughly, he got out of the convertible and cut around to open her door. “Get out.”
It cost Joni a great deal of courage to meet his eyes, but meet them she did. “You have every right to be angry—”
“You’re damn right I do.” He slammed her door so hard, it rocked the car on impact.
“If you’d rather I find another ride—”
“I brought you; I’ll take you home.”
Guiltily, she glanced away. “Please believe me, I didn’t mean to lead you on.”
“Not consciously, perhaps.” He looked at her left hand, now clenched in a fist, fighting the urge to yank the ring off her finger and free her from the past. “But subconsciously, you wanted me to make love to you.”
Joni jerked her head up in shock, but kept her voice down so the dancers wouldn’t overhear. “That’s a lie!”
“Is it?” Chance lowered his face close to her. “Then why did you get all dolled up tonight? And why were you practically sitting in my lap—”
“You’re the one who insisted I sit there.”
“You sure as hell didn’t argue about it.”
It all sounded so damnably true that she felt sick to her stomach, but still, she scoffed. “You’re crazy.”
He swore beneath his breath. “I’m crazy, all right. Crazy for wanting a woman who’s married to a friggin’ ghost.”
Joni reeled as if he’d slapped her. Before she could respond, he spun on his heel and started toward the circle of headlights. Acting purely on instinct, she ran after him and grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”
Chance paused only long enough to shake off her frantic hand. “Since there aren’t any cold showers out here, I’m going to find a cold beer.”
Loretta West was dressed to the cleavage in a slingshot of white sundress that played up her palomino paleness. Now, sitting in one of the folding chairs at the edge of the circle, she nudged Joni with her elbow. “Sweet Mother Macree, but your wildcatter sure is smooth.”
Joni glanced at Chance, dancing with a brunette in red Wranglers and boots, then back at Loretta. “For the last time, he’s not my wildcatter.”
“If you’d seen the daggers he was throwing at Simp Creed when you two were dancing a little while ago,” Loretta said, “you’d know why I keep calling him ‘your’ wildcatter.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Joni sputtered. “Simp and I are friends—nothing more and nothing less.”
“I know that and you know that,” the buxom blonde agreed. “But if looks could kill, poor old Simp would be flat on the pavement right now.”
Joni’s startled gaze swung back to the circle, where Chance was guiding his partner around with skilled finesse. He caught her eye and nodded, then spun away, leaving her to stare at his broad shoulders and the brunette’s familiar arm spanning them.
He danced the way he did everything else—with an easy rhythm rare in a man his size—and her heart tripped the light fantastic when she remembered his talented mouth. She twisted the plain gold band on her finger, trying to recall the cadence of Larry’s kisses. But her memory res
ted on the sensual tempo of Chance’s tongue, and she knew there was no dislodging it.
Loretta leaned over and laid her hand on Joni’s. “The way you’re worrying that ring, a body would think it was a ball and chain.”
“I’ve thought about taking it off,” Joni admitted softly, conscious of how heavy it had become these last two weeks. “But I’ve worn it for seven years now, and going without it would be like … going naked.”
Loretta gave a throaty chuckle. “That’s not a bad way to go.”
Joni snatched her hand away. “Forget I even said anything, okay?”
The blonde sat back, not the least bit offended, and stared at her with disconcertingly candid blue eyes. “I see you’ve finally decided to let your hair down.”
“Only for tonight.”
“One small step in the right direction.”
Joni looked around the circle, not liking the drift of the conversation, but she’d lost Chance in the crowd. “Did I tell you that Grandpa is taking some new medicine?”
“There he is.”
“Who?” But her casual response didn’t fool Loretta.
“Your wildcatter.”
Joni felt a spurt of jealousy when she saw Chance laughing at something the brunette was saying. “I told you—”
“ ‘He’s not my wildcatter,’ ” Loretta finished for her.
The music ended then, and the dancers milled about the circle while commercials for everything from herbicide to hairspray jammed the airwaves.
Chance broke away from the brunette and headed for the community beer keg, where a woman in a billowy blue dress gave him the glad eye.
His words came back to haunt Joni. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right on target. But how did she go about divorcing herself from a ghost, not to mention the guilt?
The dulcet-voiced deejay announced the final number before he signed off for the night. It was a romantic ballad, one of Joni’s favorites.
“Last dance is ladies’ choice,” Loretta reminded her.
“If he’d wanted to dance with me, he would have asked me,” Joni answered stiffly.
Loretta had never married, but what she didn’t know about men wasn’t worth knowing. “Maybe he’s waiting for you to make up your mind.”
Joni looked as if she’d just swallowed one of the June bugs attracted by the headlights. “You saw us in the car?”
“And out of it.”
The music started, casting a magic spell over the circle, and Joni realized she’d come to a crossroads of her own. She had to risk caring again.
She stood, her mind made up. “Thanks, Loretta.”
The blonde winked a lacy eyelid. “Go get him, tiger.”
Joni plunged into the crowd, dodging a dangerous elbow here and skirting a passionately embracing couple there.
Chance saw her working her way across the circle and met her in the middle. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Her heart did a two-step when he put his arms around her. “Don’t play so hard to get.”
“Where you’re concerned,” he said as he molded her body to his, “I’m as easy as they come.”
The beat surrounded them and permeated them, and starlight served as their personal strobe.
Joni danced with her eyes closed and her cheek against his chest, lost in the very life of him. She felt his hard thighs and warm hands. Heard the strong drum of his heart. Drank in the clean, woodsy smell of him. And she knew she was in the right place.
Their steps grew smaller as they drew closer. Joni wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, holding him as if she’d never let him go. Chance caressed her lower back, sensitizing her to his touch and spreading a slow, honeyed heat through the thin voile of her dress.
She whispered his name when his mouth brushed her temple, and they sealed their exquisite awareness of each other with a kiss that didn’t end with the music.
“Good nights” and “good-byes” filled the air. Motors coughed to life. Bright yellow headlights turned into tiny red taillights. Silence fell as softly as a lover’s sigh, but the moon and the stars held back the night.
Joni and Chance stood alone at the crossroads, each of them wondering where they went from there.
She knew he wanted to take her to bed.
He realized she wasn’t ready yet.
But if one or the other of them didn’t say or do something to break the spell that held them in thrall, bed was exactly where they were going to wind up.
The wind sang in the tall grass and the trees as Chance slipped his arm around Joni’s reed of a waist and steered her toward the red convertible, saying softly, “Let’s go home.”
“Oh, no!” Guilt punched Joni in the stomach when she saw Dr. Rayburn’s car parked in front of the house. “Something happened to Grandpa while we were gone.”
She flung Chance’s arm off her shoulder and slid over to the passenger side of the convertible. Before he could even brake to a complete stop, she opened her door and hit the ground at a run.
Pieces of gravel became embedded in her sandals and her toes, nicking her skin unmercifully as she tore across the driveway. Tears of frustration, not pain, filled her eyes when she tripped while going up the porch steps.
“Here.” Chance came up beside her and grabbed hold of her arm, which kept her from falling flat on her face.
“Leave me alone.” Joni swatted at his supporting hand almost hysterically.
“Dammit, I’m trying to help!”
“Haven’t you done enough?”
Before he could ask her what she meant by that, she pulled out of his grasp and stumbled unaided up the remaining porch steps.
Dr. Rayburn opened the screen door for her.
“How’s Grandpa?” she demanded.
“He’s going to be fine.” With his chaotic mop of hair, walrus mustache and rumpled white suit, Dr. Rayburn reminded Joni of Mark Twain.
“Thank God.” Her legs went limp with relief, and this time she was grateful for Chance’s hand at her elbow. “What happened, anyway?”
Dr. Rayburn pursed his lips. “Near as I can figure, Bat got to coughing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath.” He looked at Chance. “When your young roughneck called me, he sounded pretty shook up, so I said I’d come over and give him a shot to help him sleep.”
“Where is Skinny?” Chance asked.
“I sent him home,” the physician answered.
Confusion pinched Joni’s small features. “How did he know to call you?”
“I left his number by the telephone,” Chance said.
She bowed her head, ashamed that she hadn’t thought of that herself, and whispered a heartfelt, “Thank you.”
“How about a cup of coffee?” Chance offered.
Dr. Rayburn nodded. “Coffee sounds great.”
In the kitchen Joni made the coffee and Chance cut three squares of her homemade gingerbread, topping them with fresh whipped cream. She refused to let herself think about how right it felt to be working side by side with him.
When he’d finished his late-night snack, Dr. Rayburn wrote out two new prescriptions for Grandpa. “I’m going to lower the dosage on his prednisone, which seems to be keeping him awake, and give him some sleeping pills to help him relax at the end of the day.”
Chance pocketed the prescriptions. When Joni opened her mouth in protest, he shrugged and said, “I have to pick up some casing in town on Monday anyway, so I might as well get them filled while I’m there.”
“I’ll write you a check for whatever it costs.” She realized she would be reimbursing him with his own money, but she wasn’t about to accept his charity.
“Speaking of casing …” Dr. Rayburn eyed Chance over the rim of his coffee cup. “Bat tells me you’ll be ready to start drilling next week.”
“Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise,” Chance confirmed.
The physician smiled at Joni. “What are you going to do with all that money when your oil well comes in?”
She grinned. “Pay you.”
He set his empty cup in the saucer, his expression turning serious. “I told you last month that I was willing to settle for what Medicare pays.”
“That’s not enough.” She rued the day they’d had to drop their health insurance, but like most rural families, they simply couldn’t afford the premiums.
He shook his shaggy head. “There’s no Brink’s trucks in funeral processions.”
Chance reached for Dr. Rayburn’s cup. “Would you like some more coffee?”
“No thanks,” he declined. “Two’s my limit this time of night.”
Joni glanced at the cuckoo clock over the stove, surprised to see that it was nearly midnight. “Gosh, I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Chance quipped.
“Anything special happen out at the crossroads tonight?” Dr. Rayburn asked casually.
Her startled eyes met his wise ones. “What do you mean by special?”
“Oh …” He tugged thoughtfully at his mustache. “You know, did anybody start a fight or kiss and make up. Did anybody fall in or out of love? The usual kind of special.”
“Can’t think of a thing,” she said, and felt a twinge at the evasion.
The kitchen clock cuckooed, its timing perfect.
Joni yawned and stretched. “I’m afraid it’s way past my bedtime.”
“Mine too.” Dr. Rayburn brushed gingerbread crumbs off the front of his wrinkled white suit onto the table. “I’m glad to see you’re starting to get out among ’em again.”
“Starting and stopping in one fell swoop,” she stated emphatically.
“Your being here wouldn’t have prevented Bat’s spell,” the physician said.
“I know, but—” She looked away, a cauldron of guilt and rage suddenly roiling inside her.
Dr. Rayburn leaned over and gave her a perceptive pat on the shoulder. “It wouldn’t have prevented that either.”