Maybe my hair stood on end because Gable, who’d witnessed my difficulty with the letch, met my reflected gaze and said, “Why don’t you let me trade places with you? I don’t think your next-door neighbor over there will grab my ass more than once.”
He made me smile and some of my internal angst retreated. I still had the urge to stand on the counter and shout everyone into silence, but I relaxed some of my rigid self-control when his space around the corner of the bar proved to be quieter and more sheltered from the noisy crowd.
I sighed, tired and depressed. Stranded in a bar during a snowstorm represented the seventh ring of hell for me. I hated crowds, strangers, forced conversations, and confined spaces.
None of it seemed to bother the mechanic in the cowboy hat. He drank his Scotch, watched me and everyone else in the mirror, and didn’t have much to say.
I knew Gable three different ways, none of them very well. I mulled that over as I studied his reflection.
My husband and I had bought a farmhouse, planning to renovate and live there happily ever after.
Beth owned the neighboring farm, and she’d invited us to a New Year’s Eve party our first year in the farmhouse. We’d met her brother, Gable, that night. He was and still is a mechanic.
When my brother was still here and working on one of Marty Jones’ smokejumping crews, he’d brought Gable to the farm to fix several pieces of farm equipment I’d needed to sell. It had been a difficult time. I wondered if I’d even said thank you.
“Are you still the company mechanic?” I asked, remembering how he’d scrubbed his hands at my kitchen sink after laboring to get an old John Deere tractor to run.
“That I am,” he answered. “You have some more farm equipment you need worked on?”
“No.” I smiled hesitantly at him. “In case I missed saying it when you fixed the last batch, I’ll say it now. Thank you. And thanks for rescuing me tonight.”
There. I’d done my duty. He nodded his head and lifted his glass to me. “Any time. Let me know when you need me.”
I immediately wished he hadn’t said that. It brought back old grief. Gable had been in a work-related accident. He’d been hospitalized at the same time David, my husband, was there.
Beth and I had shared rides and taken turns driving to see the patients. Gable had eventually gone home. David had not.
That was a long time ago and better forgotten. At least I hoped he’d forgotten. He’d found me in a hospital closet bawling my eyes out. We’d crossed paths dozens of times since, but he’d never mentioned it, nor had I.
I wished I could forget. My face warmed just remembering. Even with his arm in a sling, he’d found a way to hold me close and pat my back. “Lean on me, Janie. Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”
And I had leaned on him. A long time, face buried in his chest to muffle the awful, racking sobs I couldn’t hold at bay any longer.
Instead of the sadness such memories usually brought, I remembered the feel of his chest beneath my head earlier today in his truck. And there will be no more leaning against that hard body any time soon.
“You have any pull with the cook?” I asked hopefully, since my hunger made the odor of fry grease and beer appealing.
“Hey, Church, got any food stashed back there?”
I pressed my hand against my stomach to stop its rumblings, waiting hopefully for Church to whip out a secret stash of filet mignon. Or even peanuts. Instead, he pointed at the Out of Eats sign and shook his head.
Having foregone birthday snacks, I hadn’t eaten since I’d consumed a bag of mini-muffins and a cup of coffee fourteen hours earlier.
I thought about drinking my dinner. But I have no head for alcohol. One beer on an empty stomach and I’d be swinging a barstool at Church’s customers.
“I wish I’d asked for cream and sugar in my coffee,” I muttered, sounding whiny even to myself.
“Was work worth coming out for today?”
I answered with a nod.
“Got someplace to stay tonight?”
“Hmm.” I murmured and looked around, pointedly. Of course, I had no place to go. If I had anywhere else to be, I wouldn’t be here.
“Rough weather out there. You might be stuck here in town a little longer than you expected.”
And? Exactly what was he getting at? Yes, yes, it’s a fucking nightmare outside—likewise in here. I gripped the edge of the bar to steady myself and I searched for an appropriate answer, something more socially acceptable than the answer in my head.
“Yes, it’s very rough outside.” I blinked at him, really looking this time at the person next to me. I ignored the noise of the customers, sound of emergency sirens and blaring television report, and concentrated on his features and how I would sketch them.
He kept talking, but I lost the thread of his conversation again. I wouldn’t be able to repeat a word of what he’d said later, but I’d remember every whisker, wrinkle, and shadow as I sketched Gable Matthews’ face.
The blue-black promise of new growth had begun to emerge at his jawline. I wondered if he knew that there was salt among the pepper. My artist’s mind sprinkled it lightly through the brush of short hair on his well-shaped head.
“Janie. You all right?” His question pulled me from my mental sketching.
“Just looking at your face,” I mumbled before I realized how stupid that sounded.
He leaned too close and murmured, “Do I have mustard on my chin?”
I recognized his cologne—as I had when I’d slept earlier. I inhaled deeply, savoring the fragrance that was a mix of spice, sea air, and heather. David’s favorite aftershave.
I gasped. The involuntary, inarticulate sound escaped as my body clenched, reaching hungrily for his. My nipples peaked and arousal stirred in my belly. Almost frantically, I gazed at him—before I slumped on my stool and turned away.
“What is it?”
“Hijacked by a smell.”
“What?” He leaned even closer and the aroma of his cologne overwhelmed my senses. I edged farther into the corner, away from him, and reluctantly explained, “Your cologne reminded me of someone.”
Irritated at myself, the night, the interruption of my mental caricature, and my stupid, stupid body’s reaction to his scent, I changed the subject, turning my attention to a news bulletin. “I’m stranded in the city in the middle of a blizzard. What’s the good news?”
I regretted asking when he immediately grinned and said, “You’re stranded with me.”
Was that an attempt to flirt? I didn’t want to be rude again. But, I especially didn’t want to worry about being rude. I just wanted to eat a hot meal, or cold—any food would do—and then go to sleep for a long time in a soft bed with piles of blankets…alone.
The television update made it clear the roads were closed and people were advised to stay home. The New Year loomed before me offering a blanket of depression. Jeez, I needed to win the lottery. Medical bills, operating bills, utility bills, food, gasoline, car payment…
Why did I ever think I could do this alone? When David and I lost his fight with cancer, I guess I got stupid.
Even after our cash down on the mortgage, we’d barely made the farm payments. Royalties from David’s first book, a best seller, helped, but it took money to live our lifestyle.
I’d been an up-and-coming artist then. My work was selling. Not big, but big enough to carry us while David wrote his second novel. I’d even had three shows in galleries, two locals, one in New York.
Even with both our incomes, we weren’t rolling in the dough, but after David was diagnosed, well…
He finished his second book. It sold decently. The reviews were tepid. Normally, he would have sucked it up and looked forward to his next. But things weren’t normal. The disappointment had contributed to his already depressed state. He quit writing.
I painted and sold. Lots of dark, dark work I didn’t ever want to see again. People liked it. It hurt. He died. I quit painting.
If Bud hadn’t moved in with me, I’d pretty much have lost everything. When he moved to LA, he wanted me to sell the farm. But, I just couldn’t let the dream go. So…
Jeez. I looked at the room of hard-bitten men and thought about taking Gable’s cowboy hat and passing it around. Broke or flush, every one of them would throw in what he could, even though I’d ignored them all since I’d lost David.
Chapter Three
In the background, Church had some eighties rock playing, and the sound of The Isley Brothers made everything seem surreal. My brain suddenly went into a tailspin, either from too little food, too much drama, or an overload of male testosterone.
Gable Matthews sat on one side of me. Rather than look at him, I watched the overweight obnoxious pig on his other side.
I want to be totally fair. The guy at the bar, although an overeating hog, remained undefined. Maybe he was a saint on sabbatical. What did I know, and who was I to judge—although, sharing the peanuts would have been nice and no way would I eat from the trough of his piggery. Yuck.
I staunchly avoided conversation with Gable Matthews; why, I don’t know. But that meant I had to engage my mind other ways. Ways that included taking in my surroundings.
What a weird place to land at the end of the year. Both men nearby made my mind race. The fat guy I wanted to plant a facer on. I wondered if I still could. Dad had been insistent that both Bud and I be able to defend ourselves. I’d tucked those talents away when I married.
How odd that I remember Dad’s self-defense classes now. Pay attention. You’re female. That marks you as prey. Fool ’em. For a moment, I remembered the ease with which the cab thief stole my ride, and frowned.
Church switched up things from retro to today and his speakers—which were awesome, by the way—began blasting “Faith” by BlasterJaxx. I looked around.
In the corner, always the dancer, the president of Smoke Inc., Martin Jones danced with himself. I grinned. Though he stood six-foot-five, had bulging muscles, and undoubtedly weighed twice as much as me, Marty had rhythm.
The rest of the men were either old familiars—my dad’s friends—or friends of my brother. Either way, I knew the group caged here would tear the place apart soon. Church, being savvy, knew it too. I recognized his strategy. The music he pumped into the room changed everything.
Damn, I was still hungry, but now, I wanted more than food. Outside, the wind howled, but inside the electricity stayed on, the television ran a continuous update on disasters, and in Church’s place, suddenly, it was party time.
I felt giddy. I had consumed too much coffee. If I started to dance on the counter, I wondered if I could blame it on an overdose of caffeine. Every nerve in me wanted to rhumba.
It was snowing like bejesus outside; the smokejumpers were caged inside with storm refugees who didn’t know they were residing with TNT royalty. And then, a crazy instrumental dance tune, all hard notes and heavy beats, suddenly came on.
I couldn’t help myself. I slid from my stool and joined Marty in his corner. He gave me a quizzical half look that passed for public amenities. I recognized it well. I don’t want to know you but I’ll tolerate your presence for a minute.
Tara McDonald dominated the sound waves, and I shrugged and pointed at the four-by-four dance floor.
Marty’s eyes lit up and we slid into a slow, gyrating rhythm to a background sound that meant nothing more than a showcase for how we spent our energy.
Score another victory for cancer. I grimaced remembering Marty’s wife, gone now too. I shoved the memory of Marty and Kit dancing from my mind, and closed my eyes.
It was almost a new year. I had earned enough money today to fund part of a barn roof and pay the utilities for January. I survived this year. I will not be sad. Dammit.
I sank into the music, embracing the driving sound that teased sexual need inside me. David was dead. For a time, I had been too. Evidently, that had changed.
Abruptly, sound cut off. Disappointed, I opened my eyes. The music resumed, this time to the pounding waves of Will Sparks taking me to “Another Land.”
And Marty had been replaced. Gable’s lithe six-foot-three fantastic body swayed in front of me as if waiting for approval.
I closed my eyes and let the accelerating sound carry me into mindless bliss. The snow fell outside, the wind howled like a sonofabitch, and inside Church’s Bar & Grill I danced.
Eight years passed through my mind like a kaleidoscope of historical events. My daddy died a firefighter, and his funeral loomed heavy as I swayed to the instrumental adrenaline-pumping “Eiforya” by Armin van Buuren.
Next came my wedding to David, a partner in life who was safe and secure, his future already guaranteed among literary achievers. We were creative playmates, going to storm the world and grow ridiculously rich together. We’d live forever and love always.
Oh yeah, oh yeah. I mouthed the words, feeling a tear push out of my lid and trail haplessly down my cheek. The farm, our dreams, the day he was diagnosed with cancer, all flashed by to the tune of “Vidorra” by Martin Tungevaag.
I danced to the pure sounds that washed my soul and lifted the sadness from my spirit. At some point, I don’t know when, I opened my eyes to find Gable still partnering my impromptu dance marathon.
Steve Angello came on with his “Yeah,” and I grinned, motioning Gable closer with a two-finger wave.
“You think you can keep up with me, hombre?” I asked, laughing at my own obvious flirtation.
“Let’s find out.” He kept his hips moving to a driving rhythm that sent lust singing from my toes to my soul.
Damn. I wanted to hide behind the music all night. Whatever station Church had tuned in, it was awesome. I could feel the weight of grief and worry peeling off me as I bounced, pivoted, swayed, and thrust to the sounds surrounding me.
I closed my eyes, drunk on sound as I reached inside for paradise. I was intoxicated, though I’d had no alcohol. Reluctantly, I opened my eyes to see if I still had a partner. He met my gaze with his own dark-eyed stare, as if he’d been waiting for the hookup. I felt him inside me, crazy as that sounds.
I didn’t know if he was a good dancer or not. But, Gable swayed to the beat, mirrored my moves, all at the same time he managed to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
Someplace halfway through Seven Lions and Myon & Shane 54’s hard-driving “Strangers,” I knew my world had changed.
The vibes feeding the room made a one-eighty switch. I reminded myself to investigate the therapeutic value of listening to music each day.
Inside, a grin twitched, but I suppressed it. David would have recommended a full investigation, with a lucid, right up, with-research-sources cited. I can do that, sweetie. Or I can just let myself know, the way I did with you.
My grin blossomed and inside I warmed, remembering what it meant to be loved and to love in return. And then I got caught up in the sound of Major Lazer and “Light It Up” and forgot about philosophy, embracing the physical instead.
It was hot in Church’s place. I could feel sweat trickle down my neck and farther, leaving a wet trail that pooled between my breasts.
Across from me, Gable’s shoulders matched the beat of the music and his gaze never left mine. It should have been disconcerting. It was exhilarating.
Damn. Too bad we were jammed up in a club in the middle of a snowstorm. By the time the blizzard ended, I was sure I’d come to my senses.
But right now, Gable was looking hot to me. Really hot.
The inside door was suddenly flung open and a giant Santa staggered in carrying two women, one tossed over each shoulder.
“Happy Early New Year’s Eve!” he yelled. “I brought the party with me.”
I thought we were already having a good time, but then Church flipped on the strobe lights, and Noah March in his Santa suit carried more beautiful women inside. They wore evening gowns and sparkly finery.
The men in the room scrambled to offer seats and
the dance floor got even more crowded than it had been.
A gorgeous blonde danced between Gable and me, took his hat off him, set it on her own head, slapped her rump suggestively, and yelled, “Yeehaw, Cowboy. Want a ride?”
My mood shifted. I left the floor, pushed my way back to the bar, and retrieved my portfolio.
I felt silly. For a moment, out there I’d been filled with euphoric lust. I hoped Gable hadn’t realized I’d made a halfhearted attempt to flirt. It was just as well. Honestly, I had no time to waste courting disaster.
Chapter Four
Life crashed my party and brought my fun to a halt as the blizzard outside intensified. Church cranked up the sound, but there wasn’t enough music to make the scary wind subside.
By the time Gable found his way back to his barstool, I’d gathered my wits and found a way to douse my lust and distance myself from the mating pheromones swirling in the air. I focused my attention on the dance floor and not the cowboy next to me.
He began a one-sided conversation, which I ignored until he picked up my right hand and began running his thumb over my callused fingers.
I looked down. His hand was broad, with long, tapered fingers, scars crisscrossing the back, and enlarged knuckles. He palmed my hand and inspected it despite my attempt to pull free.
“Your hands are delicate.”
I smiled politely. Next to his hands, Bigfoot’s hands would seem delicate. I could have argued hands. Mine were not delicate. They were square and capable and currently stained with graphite and ink. I removed my hand from his, disturbed by the touching.
Deliberately, I scanned him. He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt; he’d hung his suede sheepskin coat over the back of the bar stool. With it and his hat on, he reminded me of that old cigarette commercial featuring the handsome cowboy who made all the women’s hearts beat harder and all the men go out and buy a Stetson.
With his coat and Stetson gone, I could inspect the way his white shirt hugged his sculpted body and hinted at hidden muscles beneath. Absent the shadow of his hat, I could also see the high cheekbones and copper-colored skin that declared Gable had a dash of Native American in him.
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