A Heart Speaks - Large Print

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Got troubles, boss?” Frank inquired.

  “Naw, nothing Duke can’t handle.” Sam smiled over his shoulder as Lee heard Duke in the background, his voice like the roar of a bull elephant, telling some laborer to jack that son of a bitch up and see she didn’t bust again or his ass’d be higher than the goddam water table! Lee was laughing as Sam turned back to her. The rough language of construction superintendents was nothing new to her.

  “Everything going okay so far, Lee?” Sam’s question was simple and inconsequential, nothing at all to make her heart jump. Maybe it was the ordinary way he’d called her Lee, or the way he lifted his hardhat off the back of his head and mopped his forehead with a sleeve that sent her pulse racing.

  “Not a single complaint,” she answered. “We’ve been to all the jobsites but one. I’m getting a good idea of how much equipment the company has, but I can see there’s not much in the way of heavy stuff.”

  “We’ve leased most of the heavy stuff up till now and we’ll continue to do that until we’re sure we want to stay in the sewer and water work,” Sam explained.

  “A couple of the jobs we discussed yesterday would require a nine-eighty front-end loader and I haven’t seen one yet.”

  “I know. We don’t own one. The biggest we’ve got is a nine-fifty. That’s why I wanted you to make the rounds with Frank. I’ve got some decisions to make about buying new equipment, and I want you in on them.” There was something elemental about him standing in the hot sun with a dusty boot on a section of pipe, settling the hardhat back on his head, then tugging back on the filthy leather gloves. His rolled-up sleeves exposed arms tanned to a cinnamon hue with hair bleached almost red by the sun. A bead of sweat trickled from under the hardhat along his temple, and Lee looked away.

  In the background a machine started up, and Sam shouted to be heard above the noise. “Frank, could you run out to the Independence City Hall and pick up a set of plans for that Little Blue River job?”

  “Sure, Sam. We’ll be over that direction anyway.”

  “Good. Lee and I will run out and take a look at it Friday morning.” At the mention of her name, she turned back to the trickle of sweat, but it had become no less irresistible, collecting dust as it moved downward. It drew her eyes as if it were whitewater on the Colorado River rather than a single droplet flowing along a man’s hairline.

  She pulled her eyes away again, hoping Sam hadn’t noticed the direction of her gaze. At first she thought he hadn’t, but in the end she wasn’t sure, for as Frank pulled the pickup away from the bumpy construction site, Lee looked back over her shoulder to discover Sam standing where they’d left him, his feet planted firmly apart, his eyes following them.

  ON Thursday, just before Lee left for the day, Sam stopped by her desk. “It’s been a helluva busy week. Sorry I haven’t been around much.”

  Lee’s elbows were propped on the desk top as she leaned over a long jobsheet. Turning, she almost bumped against Sam’s thigh, he’d been standing so close. She tipped her chair back to look up at him.

  “Frank has taken good care of me. The week’s been great.”

  Sam crossed his arms, leaned against the edge of her desk, and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Good, glad to hear it. Listen, would you mind wearing something . . .” For a moment his eyes fell to her bare knee where her skirt was hitched up slightly.

  “Well, put on some slacks tomorrow, okay? We’ll probably be walking through some rough stuff when we go out to look at that job.”

  “Sure, whatever you say.”

  “Have you got any boots?” Now his eyes drifted down her calves to the sling-back high heels on her feet.

  “Aha. Got just the thing.”

  “Good. Bring ’em along. We’ll be going out first thing in the morning, and the dew can be heavy.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” For the first time he glanced up to give a quick survey of the room, but several desks were already empty, and nobody who remained paid them any attention. His gaze returned to Lee. “Have you been bringing those sack lunches like you said?”

  “Every day. The fountain is delightful with cheese on rye.”

  “Could you make enough for two tomorrow?” His eyes softened as he smiled down at her.

  “Of course. What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion. We might end up someplace out in the boonies at lunchtime, so if you’ll bring the food, I’ll bring us some cola in a cooler.”

  “Friday is bologna and pickle day.”

  “Sweet or dill?”

  “Dill.”

  “Sold.” He stood up. “See you here at eight.”

  THE following morning dawned murky and muggy after a night of intermittent thundershowers. Low, gray clouds hid the sunrise, and the thick, sultry air seemed cloyingly sticky.

  She dressed in blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a casual cotton knit pullover of navy and white stripes with a sailor collar and a ribbed waist, and took along a pair of rubber, lace-up duck hunting boots, a can of mosquito spray, and a brown paper bag containing three bologna sandwiches, potato chips, pickles, and some chocolate chip cookies.

  She and Sam set out right after he returned from his morning rounds of all the jobs. He stopped at Rachael’s desk to advise her where they’d be. “If you need us, give a call on the radio.”

  “Right, boss.”

  “We’ll take my truck,” Sam informed Lee as they crossed the parking lot toward a sleek pickup identifiable by its standard company color—a rich, metallic brown with the logo B & B in white on its doors. Sam looked down at Lee’s feet.

  “Didn’t you bring any boots?”

  “They’re in my car. Be right back.” She was only too happy to move away from Sam Brown, for her eyes, too, had meandered down the length of his strong legs, and the sight of them was altogether too compelling. What was it about him? Whenever she was close to him her thoughts strayed to his masculinity, ever since that first night in Denver when she’d found his magazine.

  He’d backed the pickup around and was waiting when she turned from the Pinto with full hands. This time her eyes were arrested by the sight of his long, bronzed arm in its white rolled-up sleeve as he stretched across the truck seat to push the door open for her. Shape up, Lee Walker, and think business! Dragging her thoughts back to safer footing, she clambered up onto the high seat beside him and dumped her collection on the floor.

  A roll of plans, his workgloves and hardhat lay between them, and with a murmured apology, Sam scooped them closer to his hip to make more room for her.

  “It’s okay,” Lee assured him, flashing him a quick smile.

  But it wasn’t okay. There was something too close about the relatively confining space of the single seat. And—dammit!—did Sam Brown’s vehicles always have to smell like him? It was his world, this masculine domain of hardhats, laced-up leather boots, and pickups with column shifts.

  “I’ll drive, you navigate,” Sam ordered as they started out. Almost gratefully, Lee opened the wide set of plans and studied the map. But even so, she found herself too aware of the tan arm with its relaxed wrist that shifted gears, the hand vibrating on the stick. Covertly she watched the tightening of muscles beneath the left leg of his blue jeans as he raised it to press in the clutch. He was a runner, she remembered, and supposed those muscles were hard and well toned. The denim fit his leg like a rind fits an orange.

  Suddenly she realized they were sitting still and raised her eyes from Sam’s leg to find he’d been watching her. For how long? She felt herself turning as red as the light that had stopped them as he smiled lazily.

  “I see you brought the bologna sandwiches.” His face was stunningly dark against the open collar of his white shirt, and it did foolish things to the pit of her stomach.

  “As ordered. Where’s the Coke?” she managed to ask in a surprisingly normal voice.

  He gestured with a shoulder and a lift of his chin. “In the back.” His lazy eyes
made her feel lightheaded, but just then the light changed and they rolled forward. Sam’s gaze moved away from her, and she returned to navigating.

  “Exit on Two ninety-one south,” she ordered.

  “Two ninety-one south,” he repeated. Then there was only the high whine of the wheels on the blacktop and the shuddering jiggle rising up through the seat beneath Lee as they rode silently. She watched the riffling of his shirtsleeves in the wind from the opened window, then studied the view beyond her own, striving to feel at ease in his presence.

  Suddenly Rachael’s voice crackled across the radio. “Base to unit one. Come in, Sam.”

  From the corner of her eye, Lee watched him pluck the mike from the dash. His index finger curled around the call button and the mike almost touched his lips. “Unit one, Sam here. Go ahead, Rachael.”

  “I’ve got a long-distance call from Denver. It’s Tom Weatherall returning your call, so I thought you’d want to know.”

  “It’s nothing important, just an inquiry I made about an equipment auction that’s coming up. Tell him I’ll get back to him on Monday.”

  “Right, boss . . . base clear.”

  “Thanks, Rachael. Unit one clear.”

  The white shirtsleeve strained diagonally across Sam’s upper arm as he replaced the mike, and Lee turned her eyes resolutely away, again resisting the urge to study him. But to her chagrin, she found she need not look to remember. He was dressed in blue jeans, white shirt, and leather boots—no different from what a thousand laboring men wore every day. Yet he looked better than a thousand men, the basic no-nonsense work clothes lending him a magnetic sex appeal totally different from the dress slacks and sport coat he’d worn the first few times she’d seen him.

  Keep your mind on your map, Walker, he didn’t even kiss you.

  They turned off 291 at her directions and took increasingly smaller roads until they came to a gravel road that led out into the country. “I think this is it.” Lee pointed to an abandoned farm off to their right.

  The pickup swerved to the side of the road to idle again while Sam hooked his left elbow over the steering wheel, rested his right hand along the back of the seat, and peered out her window. She was served up a tantalizing whiff of his aftershave as his knuckles passed before her face and he pointed.

  “Looks like it’ll start just this side of those trees and move off across the edge of that field. We might as well get out and walk it.”

  Lee was only too glad to escape the close proximity to Sam Brown, and she jumped from the cab with a shaky, indrawn breath of relief. She sat down on the running board to untie her tennis shoes and replace them with the olive drab waterproof boots, conscious now that Sam was standing with his hands on his hips watching her. She tucked her pantlegs into the boot tops, but left the yellow strings dangling. Still he stood, his weight balanced evenly on both feet, making her skin prickle with awareness. It had been a long time since a man had watched her change her clothes, even any as impersonal as shoes, and this man seemed to be studying the process all too closely. She straightened, got to her feet, and gave her ribbed waistband a businesslike tug to pull it back into place. His face wore a disturbingly appreciative half grin, his gaze centered on the thin band of skin at her waist, which quickly disappeared as she adjusted her shirt.

  “What are you staring at, Brown?” she demanded.

  He seemed to shake himself back to the present. “Estimators look different than they used to,” he teased.

  Keep it light, her saner self warned as his comment aroused a small thrill. She displayed one foot, lifting it before her. “Same as you, jeans and boots.”

  But as his eyes traveled down to her boots, she realized that instead of minimizing her femininity, they accented it. To her relief, at that moment Sam’s hand slapped at his neck, then he made a grab at the air, missing the mosquito that had just bitten him.

  “Come here, I’ll give you a spray.” Lee picked up the can from the floor of the truck.

  With a grin, he noted, “You come prepared, don’t you?”

  “In Missouri, in August, the morning after a healthy rain?” she asked pointedly. He came to stand before her while she shook the can and sprayed the front of him in long sweeps from neck to boots, noting even in that quick journey certain spots where his jeans were more worn. Damn you, Walker, what’s the matter with you? “Turn around, I’ll do your back.” But his back presented as enticing a set of muscles as his front. His shoulders were wide and firm as she sprayed them, heading down toward where his shirt scarcely crinkled as it disappeared into the narrow waist of his jeans. His buns were so flat that they scarcely curved beneath the denim. Again she remembered that he was a runner. It seemed a long, long way down to his wide-spread boots.

  He craned to look at her over his shoulder. “Hurry up. This stuff stinks.”

  As she stood up, she couldn’t resist teasing. “Don’t be such a baby, Brown. I don’t think it smells so bad.” And as if to prove the point, she gave him a shot inside the back of his collar, then pulled the can farther back and emitted a cloud at the back of his head. He doubled forward and let out an immense sneeze.

  She burst out laughing as he moved out of range and whirled.

  “Damn it all, if it isn’t one thing it’s another.”

  She puckered her face and feigned an apology. “Oh, I’m so-o-o sorry.”

  A wicked grin lifted his mouth as he returned wryly, “Yes, I can see just how sorry you are.”

  He took a menacing step toward her, and she backed away. “Now, Brown, it was an accident!” she warned, holding out a hand to fend him off. But he advanced a step farther.

  “So will this be.” He wrenched the can from her hand and shook it, a gleam of menace in his eye.

  “Brown, I’m warning you!”

  “You started it, now stand and take your medicine.”

  There was nothing she could do but turn her back on him, squeeze her eyes shut, and wait. He took his sweet time about it, while she grew increasingly uncomfortable. Finally she felt the spray at the back of her neck. Then it moved downward and stopped at her hips. “Put your arms up,” he ordered. She gritted her teeth, did as ordered, but immediately realized her mistake, for when her arms went up, so did the shirt. A long moment passed in silence, and she felt herself beginning to blush. Then the hiss of the spray finished its trip down her backside, and he nudged her with the can, ordering, “Turn around.” She spun about, chancing a quick peek at the top of his hair as he hunkered down before her, but quickly shutting her eyes as the cloud of spray moved upward. It stopped again, at her hips, and she suffered an agonizing moment, wondering what he was doing before a direct shot hit her in her bare navel.

  She yelped and jumped backward. “Damn you, Brown!”

  He chuckled devilishly. “I couldn’t resist.”

  She glared at him as he knelt on one knee, his eyes nearly on a level with the ribbed waistband that she now hugged protectively in place. She was fighting a losing battle of trying to forget that Sam Brown was a man—and he wasn’t helping one bit! The only resource she could draw upon was feigned indignation. She yanked the can from his hand, then stalked to the truck and flung it through the open window.

  “We’ve got work to do, Brown. Enough of this fooling around!” And, thankfully, he followed her lead and got back down to business.

  They set off through knee-high grass laden with dew and embroidered with spider webs to which droplets of moisture clung. They moved slowly, the only sounds those of their footsteps swishing through the grass, which occasionally squeaked as it brushed wetly against Lee’s rubber boots. They stopped and stood shoulder to shoulder, each holding one side of the wide blueprints as they studied them.

  There were a hundred considerations to be made when deciding whether or not to bid a job such as this one. The first and most obvious was the amount of dirt to be moved, where to, and with what. As they walked, they scanned the ups and downs, considering, discussing, doing mental
calculations. They left the fairly level edge of the cornfield and came to a section of uneven roughland—pasture for the most part—with gullies and swales, many filled with muddy potholes after last night’s rains. The dampness of the soil was a second important consideration, so Sam and Lee often knelt, side by side, lifting handfuls of soil, noting where they wanted to do test borings.

  Lee was conscious of the smell of mosquito spray and wet earth, and of Sam Brown’s inviting masculine scent, as they squatted with their shoulders almost touching. They moved on again, following the route the pipe would take, crossing a thick stand of prairie thistle in full purple bloom, until they came to a marsh where red-winged blackbirds perched atop bobbing cattails. The birds’ voices raised a cacophony while Sam and Lee stood unmoving for several minutes—just listening and enjoying. It was peaceful and private. Lee became aware that Sam’s eyes were seeking her out as he stood behind her, his thumbs hooked on his hipbones. It took great effort to keep from looking back, but she resolutely refrained. Assuming a businesslike air, she noted, “Lots of birds out here.”

  Sam gave a cursory glance at the swamp and grunted in agreement, but immediately his eyes swung back to her.

  “The Department of Natural Resources will require a permit before we mess around with their nesting area. I’ll make a note of it.” But when she jotted down the note, she braved a glance at him and caught him studying her in a disturbing way. Immediately she looked at the set of plans, but his next question made her forget the figures before her eyes.

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  The air was utterly still, everything washed clean by the night rains which still lingered on leaf and stem, turning into diamond beads when the sun occasionally broke through the patchy clouds overhead. Lee met Sam’s eyes, realizing that if she answered it would be harder than ever to get back to business.

  “Three years,” she replied.

  He seemed to consider before finally asking, “Does he live here?”