Small Town Girl

by Rice, Patricia

  She wasn’t used to handling SUVs so Flint drove while she turned on a blast of heat in hopes of drying off. They exchanged cursory directions but avoided the personal. The atmosphere was so thick with awareness, she figured they could ignite any moment.

  As the big vehicle rolled silently up the mountain, the dark and the rain apparently loosened his tongue—or the silence was too fraught with tension, and he sought to break it. “I talked to Elise DuBois today.”

  “I wondered when she would call.” She appreciated the distraction. “Slim says she’s been all over him, tracking down the evidence I didn’t think existed.”

  Jo didn’t take her scraps of paper very seriously. She was still grappling with the notion that her words were worth selling. She wanted to believe she could earn enough money to help her mother, but after years of disappointment, she’d learned it wasn’t that easy. Flint must have done some fancy rewriting of her rhymes, and he was telling her now that she didn’t have a case. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.

  Their conversation sounded normal and harmless, like that of an old married couple and not the minefield that it was.

  “The evidence exists,” he assured her. “She’s in possession of the original lyrics in your handwriting, which constitutes copyright under the law.”

  “Which is worth the price of a hill of a beans if I didn’t register them with that publisher Elise talked about.” Jo shrugged. She knew nothing about copyrights. She’d just had fun writing rhymes while the guys played. Her payment had been the band’s gratitude, audience appreciation, and three years of Randy’s promises to take her out of here. She really was old enough to know better. She might crave fame and fortune like a child begs for candy. That didn’t mean she deserved it.

  “You wrote a couple of the songs on the back of Charlie’s invoices.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t always have notepads laying around and Charlie never filed anything.” She’d noticed that Flint had flung out all the yellowing files and trash that had accumulated over the decades in Charlie’s office. He’d even bought some fresh file folders in different colors, and she’d actually seen him put things in them. She was impressed.

  “The invoices were dated. Elise says that doesn’t mean a judge will believe the date on the invoice corresponds to the date of the lyrics, but it’s a better indication than anything RJ is likely to produce. She’s also obtained a copy of the CD from the Charlotte studio you told me about. The studio has good records and can date when it was done, although both you and RJ sang on it, so it’s also of dubious evidence.”

  “Well, I never expected manna from heaven anyway.” She had hoped though. There for a little while—after she got past her fury—Flint had got her excited about maybe making enough money to help a little. What good was insurance that didn’t cover the emergency room anyway? She’d have to think about getting a second job.

  She turned on the radio, but all she found was static. The mountains blocked clear signals. From experience, she knew Amy’s choice of CDs included things like The Froggie Went A’Courtin’.

  “I didn’t mean that wasn’t enough,” Flint said over the static. “I mean that gives Elise physical evidence to back up the statements the band made saying you wrote all the lyrics, and they composed the tunes. Since we didn’t use the Buzzards’ music, they don’t have a case, but yours still holds.”

  Jo switched off the radio and stared at Flint’s profile in the glow of the dashboard. He handled the clumsy SUV on the mountain curves with the expertise of a race car driver and the ease of a man not aware of his own strength. He wasn’t speeding, just maneuvering the big vehicle on the unlit two-lane as if it were broad daylight, even though the downpour nearly obliterated the view of the road despite the frantic efforts of the wipers.

  She hated driving this road with the cliff straight up the right side and straight down on the left. She’d driven it since she was sixteen and had learned to respect the mountain’s dangers. But right now, she was stuck on Flint’s comments and not his driving.

  “We have a case?” she asked in simple terms that she understood.

  “You do,” he corrected. “I don’t understand the legal maneuvering, but she’s definitely filing the suit if you give her the go-ahead.”

  “Shouldn’t she have told that to me?” she asked, looking for the flaw that would shatter her hopes.

  “She still needed to verify a few things with me, but yeah, she probably should have. It’s that good-ol’-boy thing. I’m the one with the name and the contacts, and she wanted to make certain I understood what happens next. You’ll probably get a phone call Monday when she has it all together.”

  She must be more tired than she realized. She didn’t go into a rant over good-ol’-boys, or shout in jubilation over the possibility of little ol’ Joella bringing Randy to his knees, although just the prospect gave her a true jolt of glee. She sat there and pondered all the implications, but her brain wasn’t too used to that and didn’t get far.

  Instead, the enormous memory bank of music that apparently took the place of her brain spun old tunes until her toe tapped to a tune no one but she could hear.

  With the windshield wipers clapping time, she hummed a gospel song about the walls came tumbling down. Her sense of humor kicked in, and the gospel turned to Dixieland. “When the clowns come tumbling down, you’d better be there, in a hurry, when the clowns come tumbling down,” emerged from her mouth.

  Switching from Dixieland to country, Flint picked up the refrain, adding in a gravelly voice, “’cause the sight isn’t pretty, when the clowns come tumbling down.”

  She chuckled and sought a rhyme for pretty, but a thundering boom rattled the car, interrupting the process. A frightening clatter on the roof and hood drove all thought out the window. Flint eased up on the gas and strained to see out the rain-soaked windshield. “I didn’t see any lightning, did you?”

  Now that she was watching, Jo could see a hail of rocks bouncing off the hood. She screamed as they maneuvered a hairpin curve and the headlight beams caught a flurry of gravel cascading from the cliff face—illuminating a boulder the size of the SUV in the highway ahead.

  Flint slammed the brakes into a terrifying squeal. The SUV’s rear end fishtailed in time to his rabid curses.

  Jo held her breath as tightly as he held the steering wheel, waiting for the thunderous crash that would either kill them instantly or send them flying off the cliff to an agonizing death. Tires and brakes screamed. Trees growing out of the rock cliff whipped against the side window. Her seatbelt jerked tight, smacking her against the back of the seat as the airbags exploded, and the truck finally rocked to a quivering halt.

  Shaken, bruised, Jo stared out the rainswept windshield as the bags deflated. A boulder taller than the SUV loomed over them, not inches from the front bumper. They were still on the road, although tilted at a bad angle with the back end in the gully between the road and the mountain. Jo shuddered.

  “For the blessings we have received this day, my Lord, we thank you,” she murmured. She didn’t know how else to express appreciation for the horror that Flint had just avoided. Her heart pounded hard enough to push through her chest.

  “Repeat that again for me,” he said grimly, clenching the steering wheel and staring at the mountain’s revenge on man. Abruptly, he began rocking the SUV, seeking traction on the road while attempting to avoid the mudslide. “Does your sister keep flares or anything in here? Let me back down the road away from this rock, then we’d better set up warnings. Use my cell and call the police.” He unclipped his phone and threw it in her lap.

  She was still murmuring prayers, but she understood his urgency. Anyone could fly around the curve in this pouring rain. If they were speeding just a little too fast, the SUV would be crushed between the rock and someone’s bumper. Logic replaced panic.

  “Under the floor in back is the emergency kit.” Heart beating ninety miles an hour, Jo hit 911 and waited for the dispatcher whi
le Flint maneuvered the SUV to solid ground, then rolled backward to a wide place off the right side of the road, out of range of the boulder. He climbed into the downpour to rummage in the back.

  Cell phones didn’t often work out here, but for once in her life, something went right, and the call went through. After giving the location as best as she could since she hadn’t been watching, Jo hit Amy’s number to tell her what had happened and that she wouldn’t be back this evening. She had no idea how long it would take to move a boulder. She’d seen the road closed for months after a bad rock fall, but that had been when the mountain had taken the road out. The road appeared intact.

  They’d have to drive around to the Knoxville side of the mountain and come down from the west to get home. It would add hours to the drive. The mill was on the other side. It would be cut off from their east coast suppliers.

  A blocked road could destroy tourist traffic for the entire summer.

  Trying not to think like that, she put in a call to Peggy. Maybe if Amy went in and helped Peggy out, the café could stay open in the morning.

  By the time Jo had told Peggy how to find the keys to the café, Flint climbed back in, soaked and dripping all over the leather. “Don’t know if anyone will pay attention to those markers in this mess, but it’s the best I could manage.”

  The silhouette of his broad shoulders against the gray window was immensely reassuring, and the low rumble of his voice aroused a desperate need to be held. Jo valiantly resisted. “The sheriff is sending a car down from Northfork and state police are heading up from this side. It’s all we can do.” She looked at the narrow road on either side of them and tried not to descend into hysterics. “Can we turn this monster around or do we have to back all the way down?”

  “If we have to back down, it won’t be far. We passed my drive about a mile back.”

  As if hearing her thoughts, Flint reached across the seats, cupped her head, and dragged her toward him. Jo surrendered eagerly, letting the heat of his kiss remind her that they were alive. Before the windows could steam up, they both pulled apart. This was neither the time nor the place, though Jo’s heart pounded in protest at the distance.

  Without a word of comment, Flint switched on the ignition and angled backward until the taillights illuminated the cable fence on the sheer cliff side, then steered hard toward the mountain on Jo’s side of the road. “Let’s see how this baby turns.”

  She dug her fingers into the edge of the seat while he shifted back and forth, repeating the maneuver until he had the long SUV turned down the mountain.

  “You can breathe now,” he told her.

  She expelled a lungful of air she hadn’t realized she was holding, then giggled with relief at the silliness of her response. Her lips stung from the intensity of their kiss, but she could brush it off for now if he could. “All right, Mr. Big Shot, you win this one. I give you a ten in mountain driving.”

  Flint flexed his wet shoulders against the seat back to ease a knot, rubbed the back of his neck, shifted the gear, and started down the road.

  “My place or Asheville?” was all he asked.

  “Let’s not go all the way back to town in this,” she protested. The wipers barely kept the windshield clear, and the dark mountain road looked more ominous than ever. “I don’t know about you, but my nerves are shot for the night.”

  After that kiss, she knew what she was saying, but she was a big girl. Flint wasn’t likely to jump her bones unless she let him. She was the question mark in this car.

  “Did you call your sister?” he asked, not giving any evidence that he was surprised or relieved at her decision.

  “Yeah, and Peggy. They’ll cover for us in the morning. I told Amy to stay away from the new stove until we’re there though.”

  He shot her a questioning glance.

  She managed a wobbly grin, although he probably couldn’t see it. “Amy has a magnetic personality. Machines go berserk around her.”

  “Right.” He returned his attention to the road. “Good thing I bought the service plan.”

  “At least your kids can get up here if you live on this side of the slide,” she said, trying to console him.

  Instead, it shut them both up as her words sank in. His parents would be arriving with his sons in the morning. Jo had a feeling his parents wouldn’t approve of her presence.

  “Would you rather take me back to Asheville?” she asked quietly.

  “Hell, no,” he said so emphatically that she didn’t ask again.

  Fourteen

  Heart still thumping a death knell in his ears, Flint tried to collect his scrambled thoughts to remember what kind of shape he’d left the house in that morning. But the near collision with a boulder had brutally reminded him of his mortality, and Jo’s kiss had recalled too well the benefits of living. Remembering whether he’d thrown his Calvin Kleins into the hamper wasn’t registering high on his importance scale.

  A few miles an hour faster and he might have rated a back page story in the tabloids—Country Songwriter Kills Waitress in High Speed Crash, with a sub header of Clinton’s Parents Pull Life Support.

  He turned the glorified truck up the muddy ruts of his gravel drive and shook his head at the paths his mind could take to avoid reality.

  “Yeah, that’s how I feel, too,” Jo agreed, though he hadn’t said a word.

  He liked the way their minds traveled the same path. “Tell me again why I thought it was a good idea to raise my sons out here where mountains can fall on them.” The SUV survived the mud, and he spun it into the empty space where his Chevy belonged.

  “Because falling rocks are more environmentally correct than speeding semis on city interstates? I’ll have to change my lyrics. It was the mountain that came tumbling down, not the clowns.”

  “Pride goes before a fall. Fit that in while I go look for an umbrella.” He opened the door and stepped into the downpour.

  “You won’t have an umbrella, and I won’t melt.” She jumped out on her side.

  They raced up to the covered front porch. Flint fiddled with his keys while Joella shivered. The cloudburst had dropped the nighttime temperature ten degrees. Flint figured if he had a porch light, he could probably see her nipples through her wet knit. As it was, he was left admiring the lift of her breasts when she wrapped her arms around herself.

  “I haven’t tested the heating system yet. I’ll throw some logs in the fireplace in a minute.” He shoved open the door and flipped the switch that lit the lamp by his recliner. Fifties wiring didn’t include overheads in living rooms.

  “Gee, I love what you’ve done with the place.” Laughter played beneath Jo’s praise as she entered his domain. “Early Male, right? Leather, wood, a couch, a recliner, a TV, and a table to set your beer on, the basic necessities of life. No pillows, no plants, no rugs.”

  “I haven’t had time to play decorator.” Unoffended, he started for the stairs. “I need to get out of these clothes and find something dry for you. The kitchen is straight back if you want coffee, or if you want to crash, I can show you the guest room.”

  Flint had never run away from a woman, but having Joella standing in his favorite room wearing a wet knit top that revealed every voluptuous curve did things to his libido that he shouldn’t act on. And after this past half hour, his resistance was at an all time low.

  “My nerves are wired. I don’t think I’ll be sleeping anytime soon,” she admitted. “If you have a shirt I can put on, I’ll fix coffee. You want some?”

  “Yeah, same goes for me. I’ll get you one of Johnnie’s shirts.”

  He grabbed one of his son’s Sunday shirts and dropped it over the stair rail to her before returning to his own room to change. He kicked clothes under the bed and threw the sheets into some kind of order—just in case. He knew the twin beds in the boys’ room had clean sheets because he’d prepared the room for their visit.

  By the time he hurried back down with his blood racing so fast it overheated his b
rain, Jo had coffee ready and a fire started.

  “No fair. I was supposed to play Mountain Man and impress you with my ability to make fire.” Flint took the coffee mug and joined her on the expansive stone hearth. The house was large and echoing around them, and his skin hummed with awareness of the stunning woman warming his lonely space better than any fire.

  She’d removed the rest of her hairpins and let the whole golden mass down to dry. It tumbled over Johnnie’s plain blue dress shirt, but on Jo, nothing could look plain. The shirt fit better than his would have, but she’d left the top buttons open, and the soft cotton molded to high, firm curves untouched by any suggestion of support.

  So shoot him. He was a breast man.

  Silence fell between them as they sipped their coffee and let the fire warm the chill from their bones. Sparks jumped through the logs in accompaniment with the electric ones leaping between the two of them. He’d pulled on the first T-shirt out of the drawer, but Flint had to wonder if his subconscious wasn’t working overtime. The shirt was an old one that clung like Glad Wrap. He didn’t think he was a vain man, but Joella wasn’t a shy woman. They were both standing there admiring the goods.

  “I like my job,” she said abruptly.

  But not irrelevantly. He understood, because his thoughts had gone there already. They’d nearly combusted the first night they’d met. After weeks of working together, kissing wasn’t enough. The coals of desire had blown red hot. “I don’t want to lose you as a waitress,” he replied.

  She nodded as if that answered her question. “It would never work out anyway. You want a mom for your kids, someone educated like Sally.”

  Now that she’d agreed with him, Flint perversely wanted to argue. Sally sure the hell wasn’t who he wanted right now. “Education has nothing to do with what I want.”

  “Maybe not, but keeping my job afterward has a lot to do with I want.”