She’d planned to repay him a little at a time, but the amount constituted her rent for a month. Her only other option was to dip into the money she had saved for her next move or car repairs.
Something he said made Isabel laugh and throw him a flirty look under her lashes. Willa clenched her hands into fists to keep from grabbing Jackson and calling dibs.
When they were outside, she said, “That was expensive.”
“’Bout what I expected.” His tone was unconcerned.
“I don’t have that kind of money, Jackson.” Even though her lack of means wasn’t his fault, and he was doing something ridiculously nice for her and River, she was annoyed. She put her hands on her hips and closed the distance between them.
“I told you once already that I don’t expect you to pay me back.”
“But then I’ll owe you.” A cool gust of wind sent fallen leaves swirling around their feet. River pulled on the leash and snapped at the moving targets.
“It bothers you that much?” He matched her challenging stance.
“We’re just coworkers.” She hadn’t meant to throw his words back at him with such virulence.
“Are we?” His voice changed, soft and rough and comforting like a pair of well-worn corduroys. “I thought we were friends too.”
Were they? Her friendship with Marigold was simple and straightforward and easy to label. Whatever bonded her to Jackson was none of those things. It was complicated and tangled and an unknown entity.
“I guess we’re sort of friends.” More than a smidge of uncertainty hitched her words.
“Friends help each other. Let me help you.” His tentativeness was unexpected. He was usually Mr. Confident.
It was a repeat of his offer on the side of the road when the Cutlass overheated, and she wanted to slingshot her standard answer back. But the truth was, she did need his help. Or rather, River did. Willa’s hand tightened on the leash.
Unable to actually say yes, she nodded. Once they were back in her car and headed to her trailer, an awkward silence descended. What was he thinking? Even after hours and hours of study, he remained a mystery.
“You going to ask Dr. Mercier out on a date?” She couldn’t believe the question popped out, much less with claws drawn in her voice. When he didn’t answer right away, she muttered, “Forget I asked.”
“No.” The word cleaved the tension in the car.
With her eyes trained on the road, she tightened her hands on the wheel. “Don’t forget I asked?”
“No. I mean, no, I won’t be asking Dr. Mercier out on a date.”
“Why not?” She risked a glance in his direction to find him staring at her, his expression darkening with intensity. Her face heated as if he had Superman’s powers to incinerate.
“Not my type.”
She harrumphed. “She’s beautiful and smart and totally into you. If that’s not your type, then what is?”
He smiled. Not a flash, but one where he showed his straight white teeth and eye crinkles and dimples. It was like a shooting star or an eclipse. An event so rare she was mesmerized.
The wheel jerked. She had steered them onto the narrow shoulder of the parish road. After righting them, she dared not look at him again. His smile sent oxygen rushing through her, fanning the embers of hope not even the last five years of hiding could completely extinguish.
More than anything, she wanted to be with someone like Jackson. No, not true. Not someone like him. Him and no one else. Underneath his gruffness, innate kindness and integrity knitted together to form the man. Which was why she couldn’t trust him with her secrets. If he turned away from her, those embers of hope would be doused with a fire hose.
Country Aire was in sight, and she made it to her trailer without plowing into anything or anyone. River had curled up on the backseat but jumped like she’d been Tasered when the car rolled to a stop. She bolted into the field as soon as Willa opened the door.
“I hope she’s not traumatized. She’ll be back, right?” Willa hugged herself and stared over the swaying golden grass of the field.
“You’ve got to have faith she’ll understand you only want to help her.” His rumbly voice was like a caress. He stared out into the field as well. “Don’t give her up.”
“I might not have a choice.”
“Of course you do.”
She bit the inside of her mouth until the metallic taste of blood made her ease up. Her past choices overshadowed her current ones. Her dad was still out there and vulnerable. If Derrick tracked her down, then everyone she cared about would be at risk too. Jackson included.
“I’m racing tonight. Why don’t you come down to the track?” His voice had lost some of its intensity.
Her face heated as if he could read her mind. Did he know how often she found herself at the track on Saturday nights? She generally bypassed the ticket booth and crowds and watched from outside the fence on a small rise. The excitement of the races was offset by anxiety over his safety. Jackson drove with an abandon that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying and very unlike his typical deliberateness.
She snuck a glance. He raised his brows, the corners of his mouth quirked up slightly. A challenge had been issued.
Forcing a vague tone, she said, “Maybe I will.”
His smile deepened and his dimples made a brief appearance before going into hiding once more. “I’ll be on the lookout.” He drove away, his Mustang’s engine sounding like a virtuoso in an orchestra.
Chapter Seven
Jackson scanned the crowd and cursed under his breath. Because of the LSU football bye weekend, more people were in the stands and milling around than usual. No sign of Willa though. He’d been sure the twinkle in her eye had been an acceptance even though her answer had been wishy-washy.
His worry over her well-being was totally logical. If she were at the track, it meant she hadn’t hightailed it out of Cottonbloom. It meant she was safe. That whatever she was running from hadn’t caught up with her yet. But logic couldn’t explain away the tightness in his chest and the agitation that had him pacing next to his race car.
Dammit. He turned and kicked the rear tire. The image of Willa’s huge expressive brown eyes wouldn’t get out of his head. Her full lips and curves had imprinted themselves in his brain so when he closed his eyes at night, she was all he could see. Even her chopped-off hair held its appeal, waving around her face and tucked behind her ears.
She’d always been there beside him in the garage, but only with the threat of losing her looming, did he actually see her. Something important, possibly vital, flared between them.
He wasn’t the most outgoing of men. When things were being divvied up in the womb, his twin brother had gotten the majority of the charm. What he’d been gifted with was an unshakable steadfastness to his family and friends and the garage. And somewhere along the way, without realizing it, the umbrella had expanded to include Willa.
His emotions were better kept compartmentalized. His pop’s death had been gut-wrenching, but the easiest way to deal with it was to ignore the feelings altogether. He was handling Ford’s threats about selling his share in the garage in much the same way. But when the anger or frustration or grief got to be too much, the track always provided an outlet. Although winning was a perk, it was the cleansing rush of adrenaline he was after.
Whatever was brewing this time, however, seemed explosive, and he wasn’t sure if a single race could defuse it.
“You’re up next, Jackson.” The race coordinator hollered over the engine and crowd noise.
Jackson took one last look around. Disappointed, he climbed through the window of his old-school Monte Carlo. The doors were welded shut, and the inside stripped of everything except the essentials. The car was a beater, but with his modifications, it was faster than most of the cars on the track, and he was always the best driver.
He pulled on his racing helmet and maneuvered to the start. Five racers tonight. The track would be crowded. He needed to
get out first to avoid being caught up in traffic. His focus narrowed to the start signal, and his foot hovered over the gas.
The green lit up. Tires spun, and the noise of engines was deafening. The car next to him clipped his bumper, but he kept moving. He took the lead and hugged the left of the track, forcing the other cars behind him.
Keeping the car on the edge of control and chaos was a physical endeavor. Plotting moves and staying ahead of the competition required him to evaluate the landscape like a chessboard. The crowd was a blur of color in his periphery on their first lap.
A red Ford Mustang moved up on his right. The car housed the only man who stood a chance against Jackson. Max was in his early fifties, mean as a copperhead, and a hell of a good driver. On the next turn, the Mustang grazed the side of Jackson’s car. Jackson gritted his teeth and leaned his car into the rub.
They made two more passes around the track side by side. Jackson would make his move on the final lap and leave Max eating his exhaust.
Jackson couldn’t say what drew his single-minded attention away from the track the moment he hit the back straightaway. But it landed on a figure on the far side of the fence, fifty or more yards away. A tingle went down the back of his neck. Aunt Hyacinth would say someone just walked over his grave.
He blinked and turned his focus back to battling two thousand pounds of metal. The adrenaline pulsing through his body took on a different flavor and had the opposite effect from what it usually did, shattering his steellike concentration. The hesitation cost him half a car length to the Mustang. He hit the gas on the next turn to make up ground and the back end of his car swung around too fast for him to maintain control. A rookie mistake.
Everything blurring, he went with the spin, hoping momentum would push him far enough to the outside of the track to avoid getting nailed by another car.
The impact was swift and hard enough to send his head knocking into the roll bar. He closed his eyes. His car came to a stop, the engine dead, the crowd noise like ocean waves. A few minutes passed, enough time to string together a world record in cursing. He’d never caused a wreck.
A knock sounded. In orange reflective vests, two members of the safety crew peered into his window. He gave them a thumbs-up and climbed out. The race was over, and so was his car. Totaled.
He pulled off his helmet and tossed it onto the front seat. The hit had taken out his rear bumper and crumpled the back end. The frame was bent. He might be able to salvage the engine.
The car that hit him was being hooked up to the tow truck. Steam hissed from the hood. Jackson muttered a curse when he saw the number on the side. It belonged to the most volatile driver on the circuit. “Is Don all right?”
“He’s fine. His engine block is damaged, and he’s mad as hell, but he could have avoided you if he’d backed off. What happened? Car have a problem?” Randall asked. He’d been buddies with his pop. His grizzled beard made him look older than his years.
“I screwed up.”
Randall’s eyebrows rose. He didn’t need to say anything else. Jackson did not screw up on the race track. He wasn’t hotheaded. Except a glimpse of someone who may or may not have been Willa had disintegrated his legendary discipline as easily as the track clay crumbled under his boots.
A second tow truck lumbered out to move his car off the track. He wouldn’t be back racing until after the new year. He walked back to the pit area where the drivers congregated. Don was on him before he could peel his leather jacket off.
“My car’s a wreck, dude. What the fuck?”
Jackson shrugged. They all knew the risks and rewards of dirt track racing.
“Jackson? Jackson!” An achingly familiar voice called his name and he whirled around.
Willa threw herself into him. The impact knocked her baseball cap off, and he couldn’t see her face buried in his neck, but her arms were tight around him, her hands roving over his back.
“Are you okay? Tell me you’re not hurt.” Her voice was muffled against his skin.
He wrapped an arm around her, dropped his face into her hair, and inhaled deeply. She was literally a breath of fresh air in the middle of fried foods and sweaty drivers.
“Nothing hurt but my pride.”
She pulled back. Her gaze roamed over his face and torso, her worry palpable. “Concussion?”
His internal organs sizzled under her gaze. “I’m fine. Promise.”
Her mouth thinned, and she slapped his arm. “You scared me to death. You’ve never lost control like that.”
“Hey, we’re not done.” Don shoved his shoulder from behind. “You’re going to pay for the damage to my car, hotshot.”
Jackson turned, trying to keep Willa behind him, but she stepped out to stand at his side, hands on her hips.
“You know how this works,” Jackson said in a low voice with more than a hint of threat.
“But it was your fault.” A whine entered Don’s voice. The man was a bully with the heart of a coward.
Willa piped up, her voice snappy. “You had plenty of opportunity to drop back and avoid hitting him. You need to practice on an empty track before they let you in another race, hotshot.” The last word dripped with acidic mockery.
“Shut up, bitch.”
Already on edge, Jackson’s control took a leap off the cliff. Whatever had been brewing all night boiled over. With the expletive still ringing in the air, Jackson launched himself at Don and took him to the ground.
Don had two inches and a good twenty-five pounds on Jackson, but it was mostly fat. Plus, Don hadn’t grown up with three brothers who preferred to solve problems by taking it behind the barn. The asshole didn’t stand a chance.
They rolled twice, and Don got in a glancing elbow to Jackson’s cheekbone. The left side of his face went momentarily numb. His fury stoked hotter. On their next roll, Jackson came up on top, straddled the other man, and got in two quick jabs. Blood spurted out of Don’s nose. He cupped his hands over his face and rocked side to side with a pitiful-sounding high-pitched moan. Jackson hopped to his feet, massaging his knuckles.
Willa grabbed his biceps and tugged. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
He resisted, too much dynamic energy still pulsing through his body. “That all you got? Get up.”
Don stayed down. Jackson glanced around. Everyone was quiet and watching. He felt like someone else was inhabiting his skin.
“Please, Jackson. Let’s go. What if the police come?” Willa pulled harder, her hands biting.
The threat of the police didn’t budge him. What did was the soft, pleading look and worry in her eyes. For him.
He took a step, and she slipped her hand all the way down his arm to weave her fingers with his. He didn’t resist this time and let her lead him away. She scooped up her hat on the way out of the tent. Licking heat spread from his hand, up his arm, and into his chest. He was a nuclear plant in the middle of a meltdown.
The chill in the air didn’t do much to cool him off. They slipped out of the front gate of the racetrack and into the dark parking lot. Trucks and cars were jumbled together in a free-for-all. The farther they got from the track, the less frantic Willa seemed, and in turn, the threat of a meltdown receded. Her run-walk slowed to a stalk and her grip eased enough for blood flow to resume to his hand.
“Are you crazy?” Her voice was hoarse.
His equilibrium was not fully restored. Between the wreck and the punch, his behavior had been erratic and completely unlike him. He took a couple of deep breaths. “Possibly.”
She made a harrumphing sound, and he could imagine her rolling her eyes as she tended to do when confronted with the absurd. A step ahead of him, she pulled him along on the shoulder of the road.
Her hat was back on her head, and she was in the same pair of jeans from that morning, but a different color T-shirt and an olive-green cotton jacket. Her hips swayed as her legs ate up the distance.
He’d watched her work more times than he could count, in a
we of the nimble gracefulness of her hands. Now he was aware that trait wasn’t exclusive to one body part. Her every move contained a dash of sensuality and strength. It was potent.
“Are we walking home?” He might as well have been talking to the whippoorwill calling in the tree they passed under. She was pissed.
And how could he blame her? The night had gone to hell. It wasn’t the first time he’d been involved in a crash, but it was the first time he’d been the cause of one. He’d jumped Don and maybe broken his nose. Don could press charges if he really wanted to be a jerk. Jackson’s cheek throbbed, and his left eye was swelling.
So why did he feel like whistling?
The chaos continued to spin his head and set his heart to beating faster. Even though they were well away, she kept hold of his hand. The gesture seemed more than expedient; she was protecting him. Their relationship took another turn, this time on two wheels and slightly out of control.
Something she’d said tickled his memory. “You said I’d never lost control like that. How would you know?”
She disentangled their hands, her pace picking up. “An assumption. You’re Mr. Control Freak in the garage.”
He didn’t allow her to escape, grasping her wrist and pulling her to a stop. “Have you been to the track before?”
“No.” She rubbed her nose and looked toward the line of dark trees across the road. He waited. “Maybe,” she whispered.
“To watch me?”
“Maybe,” she repeated even softer.
How had he never seen her? The same question could be applied to the last two years in the garage. Because he hadn’t been looking. Had he feared the consequences if he’d allowed himself to care about her before now? But that was the rub. He’d cared for her long before now, even if he couldn’t put a time stamp on when it had happened.
Tonight had knocked the breath out of him. Not the wreck, although that had been the start. He didn’t pick fights and bust faces. His control was broken, and there was not enough duct tape in Cottonbloom to put it back together. A wild impetuousness reared from somewhere in the confusion she’d unleashed. As ill-advised and dangerous and stupid as it was, he wanted to kiss Willa.
When the Stars Come Out--A Cottonbloom Novel Page 8