When Windy opened the enclosure door, he sat staring in her direction. Glassy-eyed, he knew his sinful expression combined hunger and guilt. Feeling like a sneaky child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he grinned—a sheepish don't-punish-me grin.
She reached for her robe, and Sky wondered what to do now. Pretty Windy had him behaving like a randy teenager who didn't have an ounce of control over his raging hormones. And she looked good enough to eat: eyes wide, damp cheeks flushed, wild hair wet and tangled.
Time to hightail it out of here, he thought, planting his feet firmly on the floor. "I'm going to go look for Tequila," he said, racing out the door as if the devil himself were on his heels.
* * *
Sky had spent half the day and part of the evening searching for the snake. It was his own fault Tequila was so clever at hiding. Since .he had encouraged her throughout the years to play the silly game, she would find a hiding place, poke her head out, then sneak into another spot while his back was turned. He usually tired of the game before she would, so he would abandon the search in favor of a sugary snack and an old-fashioned shoot-'em-up Western. Eventually Tequila would surface, climb onto his lap and fall asleep.
Of course, that had changed, thanks to Windy. Once again, Sky found himself in a bar when he'd rather be lounging in front of the TV. Staying home with her unnerved him. Celibacy was downright self-torture now. A good stiff drink seemed to be the only cure. Well, not the only cure, but Windy might not like the alternative.
This time he avoided the local bar with the nosy cocktail waitress. Today he had headed for a small town in the high desert. To a ratty little dive where people minded their own business. No happy hour. No chic L.A. women. No trendy haircuts. Just a broken-down bar stool, a shot of whiskey and peace of mind.
"Just sit yer butt down and shut up."
Sky knew better than to turn around, but he did it, anyway. The sharp words belonged to a big, crude man, shoving a skittish little redhead through the front door. The man nodded to the bartender, gripped the redhead's arm and seated himself at a table directly behind Sky.
"Bring us a couple of beers," he called out.
"Sure thing, Hank." The bartender waved the rag in his hand.
The woman's timid voice protested softly. "I don't want a beer, Hank. I just want to go home."
"I'm goin' outside for a minute," Hank said, pushing his chair away. "And I don't want to hear you whinin' when I come back. Jimmy's meeting us here for a drink. I'd like to enjoy an evening with my brother for once."
Sky watched the man saunter off, wide shoulders and an even wider girth protruding over grubby, ill-fitting jeans. Hell, damn and hell again. He cursed what he was about to do.
"Are you all right?" He stood at the redhead's table, tapping a pack of cigarettes on his wrist, an old habit he hadn't quite abandoned.
She lifted her chin—empty eyes, pale skin and wiry hair sticking out from the back of a chipped metal clip. She appeared too old to be a runaway, he thought, and too young to look so haggard. As he toyed with the cigarette pack, her eyes grew hungry.
"You want one?"
She nodded and he sat down to light it for her.
"You better go before Hank comes back." She closed her eyes and inhaled, as if savoring something vital. "He has a bad temper."
"Yeah, I kind of figured that," Sky said as the bartender slid Hank's beers onto the table. "What's your name?"
She took another nervous drag. "Lucy."
"How old are you, Lucy?"
"Twenty-three."
Damn. "Hank your boyfriend?"
"Husband," she answered, keeping a close eye on the front door. "We got two kids."
"He do that to you?" Sky reached up to touch the faded bruise on her left cheek.
She looked away. "Why are you talking to me?"
He dropped his hand. Good question. She was twenty-three years old with two kids and an abusive husband. How was he supposed to help? "I thought Hank looked like he needed to pick on someone his own size," he answered, fingering a cigarette. "I don't know much about these things, but I've heard there's places to get help. Women's shelters. I'm sure the police could—"
Lucy interrupted, flicking ashes carelessly. "What are you? A Good Samaritan?"
"No." Sky smiled wryly. "I been called lots of things but Good Sam ain't one of them."
Lucy almost smiled. "You better go, Sam."
He dropped a couple cigarettes on the table. "Nice talking to you, Lucy."
When Sky turned around, he stood eye to eye with Hank. "What were you doin' sitting with my wife, Injun?"
Injun? "Just offering the lady a smoke." Sky noticed there were two Hanks now. Two big, ugly Hanks.
"Stay away from my brother's wife, half-breed," the second Hank said. "We don't like yer kind around here."
Must be Jimmy. Charming family. "Don't know if you boys have heard, but my kind are called Native Americans now." And mixed bloods in the Creek Nation were revered, but he decided to keep that information to himself. One or two of his mixed-blood ancestors may have been chiefs. Now wouldn't that gall Jimmy to think Sky could have descended from Creek royalty?
Hank reached for the cigarettes on the table. Shoving them against Sky's chest, he flashed a cocky grin to his brother. "Take your smokes and go, blue eyes."
Sky's jaw twitched as Hank crumbled the cigarettes against his chest. What he wouldn't give to ram his fist down this man's throat. But his days of brawling in bars were over. "I'll just go finish my drink."
"You do that." Jimmy gave him a little shove. Instinctively Sky's fists clenched.
Don't do it, he told himself. A couple of rednecks aren't worth a night in jail. What possessed him to stop at this hole-in-the-wall, anyway? How many times had he been in similar situations? Honky-tonk bars in the middle of nowhere. Truckers, bikers, rednecks, other cowboys. He'd brawled with them all. The smart thing to do—get out and don't look back. "Like I said, I'll go finish my drink."
Hank and Jimmy sat their wide behinds down, and Sky could hear Hank cussing at Lucy. Damn, he had only made things worse for her.
And then he spent the next two hours thinking about another woman—a pretty little blonde. Why did he find Windy so appealing? Was it her innocence? Her gentle nature? When she'd caught him ogling her through the shower door, he'd embarrassed them both, yet she hadn't snapped at him. And the fact that she didn't kind of warmed his innards.
Sky fingered the cigarette pack. Forget about her. You gave up women months ago. And for good reason. The more he remembered about his past, the more he realized his inability to love, to participate in a healthy relationship. And substituting sex for love was one of those weird Freudian things he wanted no conscious part of.
What decent woman would want him, anyway? Especially a woman dedicating her life to children. What he'd done made him a dishonorable man, a first-class, A1 bastard. The kind of guy who didn't have the right to look at a woman like Windy, let alone fantasize about her.
Sky pushed his hair out of his eyes. He knew Windy found him attractive. He'd caught her admiring glances, her lowered lashes and soft smile. Spoiling that attraction would be easy, though. All he'd have to do was tell her that he'd been a teenage father who had abandoned his son, a guy too selfish to accept his parental responsibilities, too screwed up to know how to love someone else.
He tapped on his empty shot glass. He wanted to find his kid and set things right. But how could he? He had yet to remember the boy's name, who the child's mother was, or exactly what had happened.
The child. Hell, by now his son would be about seventeen—practically a man. Sky closed his eyes. Hopefully a better one than himself.
Rough, masculine voices grabbed his attention, interrupting his thoughts. He opened his eyes and frowned. The commotion: Hank and Jimmy at the door, drunk as skunks with Lucy wrestling Hank for the keys to his car.
"Hank, honey, let me drive." A victim's words, softly spoken.
/> Sky squeezed his eyes shut again, but the coward's way out didn't help. He could smell Lucy's fear. Frail little Lucy, afraid to run. Afraid not to. He gripped his chair as if to keep himself in it. Someone else's troubles were none of his business. He had plenty of his own.
He motioned to the bartender. "Isn't it your responsibility to keep people from driving drunk?"
The bartender, fortyish, large arms inked with tattoos a man might receive from another inmate, grunted like an angry bear. "Hank ain't that drunk."
No, not that drunk. Sky watched Hank and Jimmy stumble out the door, Lucy fretting nervously behind them.
Damn. "Give me another one." He slid the shot glass toward the tattooed bear. If he was going to brawl with a couple of redneck brothers then another belt of whiskey was definitely in order.
The gold liquid burned his throat. This is my last night in a bar, he told himself. Pretty roommate or not. Sky had the sinking feeling he was about to get his butt kicked. Hank and Jimmy might be drunk, but there were still two of them.
Well, hell. He headed for the door. If getting roughed up a little meant giving Lucy the chance to snag those car keys, then it would be well worth it.
* * *
The cheery ladybugs on the kitchen border did nothing to improve Windy's mood. She poured herself a glass of filtered tap water, placed it on the oak tabletop, then peered into the living room, checking on the snake's whereabouts for the hundredth time. It appeared to be sleeping, resting lazily in its glass domain. Even though she told herself being fearful wasted positive energy, and reptiles were one of God's creations, its slimy presence still gave her the creeps. At least it hadn't escaped again. As long as that beast remained caged, she could learn to deal with it.
Sky, on the other hand, was another matter. He had been gone all night, and that bothered Windy. She had been thinking far too much about her roommate, feeling much too attracted to him.
Where would a man go all night? She headed for the refrigerator and pulled the door open. The disturbing answer was as plain as the nose on her face. To a woman's house, of course. He had spent the night with a woman. Another woman.
My God. She was actually jealous. Jealous of Sky smiling at another woman, touching another woman, kissing another woman. She slipped a slice of wheat bread into the toaster and admonished herself. Sky had the right to a personal life, and a man who looked like him probably had plenty of lovers. Dang it. Why should she care? She barely knew him.
Windy sat at the kitchen table and nibbled her dry toast. The problem, she decided, was Sky's mysterious background. Once she talked to Edith, and Sky's secrets were disclosed, maybe she would quit obsessing about him. She couldn't help but recall that shower and every erotic, awkward detail. Every tingling sensation. She had practically melted on the spot while his fevered gaze slid sensuously over her flesh, his boyish smile rife with mischief. No point in denying the primal urges that had loomed in the steam-filled air.
Windy frowned. Primal urges she had never experienced before. Textbook knowledge aside, sexual promiscuity remained an enigma in her mind. She couldn't imagine intimacy without love, yet here she was, falling in lust with a stranger—a gorgeous, troubled stranger. A summer fling was out of the question, though. She had saved herself for a lifetime of love and commitment, not a season of dusty boots, faded jeans and the most incredible blue eyes imaginable.
The sound of the front door opening jolted Windy's heart. Sky was home, his footsteps unmistakable. Should she turn around? Pretend she wasn't thinking about him? Toss her head carelessly and say hello? Force a casual smile? Avoid his eyes?
Oh, yes, she should definitely avoid those blue eyes.
"Hey, Pretty Windy," his husky voice caressed her.
Take a deep breath. Turn around and face him.
"Oh, my God, Sky, what happened to you?"
There he stood: Western shirt, bloodstained and torn; jeans filthy; turned-up boots dustier than usual. A blackened eye. Dirt and dried blood caked in the corners of slightly swollen lips.
"Had a little accident."
Windy's pulse raced. "A car accident?"
His good eye twitched. "Naw, my face had an accident with someone's fist."
She shook her head. Someone's fist? He'd been in a fight? All at once she felt maternal, disgusted and confused. She wanted to reprimand him, yet hold him. Tell him off soundly, yet wipe the blood from his chin and ease the swelling.
"Let me guess. You were drinking last night and got into a brawl. Oh, and there was a woman involved."
"Sorta … well, yeah." He frowned. "I wasn't drunk, though. And there were two of them."
"Two women? You had a fight over two women."
"No." His frown deepened, creasing the space between his eyebrows. "I had a fight with two men. There was only one woman. She was married to one of the men. Her husband was a jerk."
Windy didn't know what to say or what to do. He looked miserable, yet he had brought it upon himself. She didn't believe in violence of any kind. "You fought with this lady's husband because he was jerk?"
"Yeah. Sorta, I guess."
She sighed, the teacher in her taking over. On occasion the boys in her class pushed and shoved. She knew how to talk them out of a skirmish, and when it was too late, bandage a scraped knee and hug their hurt away. She studied Sky. Did he need someone to hug the hurt away?
"Why don't you sit down and tell me what happened while I get you cleaned up."
He shifted his feet as though debating her offer, debating whether or not to let her touch him. She couldn't help but smile. Some of her tough-guy students did that, too. They held their little faces high and bit back their tears.
"I'll be gentle. I promise."
His bloodied lips broke into a grin, warming her from head to toe. He inched forward, his hair falling across his black eye. "Okay, Nurse Windy, you're on."
Oh, no, she thought. I'm in trouble. Even bruised and battered, her mysterious roommate had an engaging smile—a smile guarding the man within. The man she longed to know.
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
It hurt like hell to grin, but Sky couldn't help himself. No woman had ever made a sweeter offer. She said something about getting the first-aid kit and he watched her walk down the hall. She looked fresh: purple flowers sprinkled across her spring-green dress; legs bare; painted toenails slung into leather sandals. He hoped she had a first-aid kit. He knew he didn't.
Windy returned and placed a stack of towels, several washcloths and a first-aid kit on the oak tabletop. The red cross on the plastic container and the clean white cloths seemed official. Sky slid his long body into a chair and smiled again.
"Would you stop grinning." She touched the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth. "You're making your lips bleed."
He closed his eyes and winced like a child being scrubbed clean by his mother. And then he fidgeted, feeling like a little boy as she ran her hands through the front of his hair, moving it away from his face. He couldn't remember anyone ever fussing over him—babying or mothering him. He decided he liked the attention, maybe always longed for it, even though, like now, he probably didn't deserve it.
"I'm not hurting you, am I?" she asked.
God, no. "The hair part feels good."
Her hand stilled. "You have beautiful hair."
When he opened his eyes, the swollen one fluttered, causing him to squint. Her compliment embarrassed him a little, so he chose to change the subject by skipping the "thank you" part. "The fight was my fault, I guess. But I'm not sorry about it. That guy at the bar, he was treatin' his wife bad, so I called him on it. She was a little bit of a thing. Like you, Pretty Windy. Just a slip of a girl."
"Oh."
Sky figured she didn't know what else to say. He'd made it sound as though it had been her honor he'd defended. She moved the damp cloth down his neck, and he unbuttoned his torn shirt. Suddenly, being this close to her didn't seem like such a good idea.
"Oh, Sky," Windy's voice reached out compassionately. "What did they do to you?" His unbuttoned shirt exposed a colorful patch of bruising on his chest and stomach.
Feeling a little foolish, he shrugged. "Got kicked a few times." Ugly Hank had big feet and big, steel-toed boots. "Nothing's broken. And I got in a few good kicks of my own. I got one of them in the … ah—" Sky remembered Jimmy, hunched over, his face twisted in pain. "Well, I got him good."
Windy stared at his marred flesh, then raised her eyes to his grinning face. "This isn't funny. You look awful."
"I've been hurt worse. This ain't nothin'." He realized how ridiculously macho he sounded and how poor his grammar was. Ladylike women put him on guard, making him feel inadequate in ways he couldn't begin to describe. Flashing a disarming grin was his only defense, that or flirting.
Windy doused a cotton ball with a strong antiseptic. Gently dabbing it at his chest, she cleaned the bloodied scrapes surrounding the bruises. "Do you get into a lot of fights?"
"Used to," he responded. "It's the cowboy way, I suppose."
Her caramel-colored eyes locked onto his. "What does that mean exactly?"
Surviving the loneliness, he wanted to say. Having to prove you're a man. "It's just a life-style."
She doused another cotton ball. "Sounds dangerous."
He laughed, his lip splitting a little as he did. It was, he supposed. Stupid and dangerous. "Charlie never went out for that sort of thing, though. Used to give me hell about it." But then, his boss had a wife and daughter. He didn't understand what it felt like to be completely alone. "Charlie's a responsible cowboy."
She smiled. "I have a feeling I'd like Charlie. How long have you worked for him?"
"Seems like forever." Sky's gaze followed Windy's hands. They were tending his stomach now. There wasn't much to doctor, just a few minor scrapes. The bruises would heal on their own. "Charlie's been good to me." But Sky wasn't always loyal to Charlie. He'd pop in and out of the other cowboy's life, work for him sporadically. Sky couldn't take the show-biz thing year round so he'd find ranch work in between. Maybe it wasn't just the show-biz aspect, he thought. Maybe he feared the affection he felt for Charlie's family, the wondering about his own.
SKYLER HAWK: LONE BRAVE Page 3