* * *
He had to fight the urge to ride heavy on the gas pedal. He’d start thinking of Carol out in this mess and his foot would begin pressing the accelerator harder and harder until he’d grit his teeth and force himself to ease off, coasting down to a safer speed. He wouldn’t do anyone any damn good if he wrecked. Besides, odds were she was fine, simply delayed and taking it slow and easy on these bad roads. Maybe she’d even stayed in town until the storm blew over.
He breathed out a long sigh and tried to relax. The truck’s heater ran full blast, though it struggled to do more than take the worst of the chill from of the air. He concentrated on keeping the truck between the lines as the wipers threw snow slush from the windshield. Nice and easy. He glanced down at the speedometer again. Going too fast. He lightened up, cursing himself, feeling tension pulling the muscles in his neck into taut cords.
He saw her truck’s headlights and flashers first, then beyond them, the red spark-glow of a flare, barely visible through the snowfall. His heart began pounding hard, but relief swept through him at the same time, making him feel as if he’d been thrown from a horse and rolled out of the dirt unscathed. He craned his neck, trying to see where Carol was, and caught a glimpse of her around the passenger side of the truck, covered in snow, and pouring something on the ground.
When he was safely past her, he checked his mirrors again and carefully turned the truck around. The tires on the right-hand side struggled a little with the snow and mud, but he steadily powered through. He pulled up behind the trailer and turned on his flashers and foglights. He yanked on some leather gloves and climbed out. Within a couple of paces he had gained a respectable collection of snow on his shoulders and hat.
Carol was pouring cat litter into the muddy trench dug out around her truck’s front and back wheels. She flinched when she spotted him stomping out of the snowfall. Then she tipped back her hat and frowned. Mud covered her boots, the bottoms of her blue jeans, her gloves and stained its way partway up her sleeves. There was even some mud on her cheek, where she must’ve accidentally brushed it there.
“Need a hand?” he called.
“A little late for the cavalry,” she said. “I just finished all the hard work.”
“I timed it just right then. Now I can tell your aunt I rescued you and I don’t have to get dirty.”
For a moment she didn’t reply and the scowl remained on her face. Then the corner of her mouth twitched up into a grin. “My hero.”
He had the distinct feeling he’d dodged a bullet by making her smile. Still, he could read her well enough, and she was clearly irritated. He’d tread light here, but he wouldn’t apologize for riding out to find her. Maybe she could handle herself just fine, but his momma hadn’t raised her boy to scorn helping a lady. Whether or not she accepted was her business. “What happened?”
“Some reckless dimwit with a death wish ran me off the road. Passed me, going too fast, and cut in too soon.” She squatted down and pointed. “The four wheel drive and all the weight of the trailer gave me good traction on the snow, but once I was off the shoulder and stopped, the tires kept spinning in the mud.”
He scanned her work. “So you dug down to drier ground, poured out cat litter for traction. Looks good. If it doesn’t work, it’ll give me a chance to use my winch.”
She snorted. “You’re always looking for a reason to use your winch.”
“What’s the use of having a toy if you can’t play with it?”
“Ten bucks says I roll on out of here without any help.”
He blew out a cloud of breath. “Never been a betting man.”
“Fine. Loser makes hot chocolate. And it better be good.”
“Guess I’ll take those stakes. Seems safe enough.”
Carol laughed and started stomping through the snow around the truck. He held out his hand to steady her as she climbed the jumbled mess of snow around the tire. She paused, looking at his hand for a long moment, then grabbed it. Her grip was strong. She crossed the ditch and snow piles around the truck without stumbling or slipping and nodded her thanks. He kept hold of her hand longer than was necessary for the simple and plain fact that he didn’t want to let her go. She didn’t seem to notice as she pulled away and continued on. Her boots crunched in the snow as she plowed her way to the driver’s side, shaking snow off her coat and hat, and then climbed inside. She revved the engine as if she were about to drag race. Then she dropped it into gear and edged it forward. The tires slipped, then caught traction. She rocked it out of the mud and back onto the asphalt shoulder again.
She rolled down the window and leaned out, grinning. He tromped through the snowpack to her, already knowing what she was about to say.
“You lost, cowboy.”
“Guess I’ll grill up some hot chocolate when we get back.”
“If you grill hot chocolate, you’re doing it wrong. See you back at the ranch.”
He smiled and headed to his truck, feeling…feeling he didn’t know what. Relief that she was okay. Disappointment that he hadn’t been able to help. That was plain selfish, true enough, but some part of him had wanted to come through for her. He shook his head, disgusted with himself, and he flipped on the truck’s wipers. Half-melted snow covered the windshield and his wipers sent it flying in time for him to see her carefully merge onto the road lane again.
Losing the silly bet didn’t bother him. Although he’d turned out to be about as useful as tits on a bull, he was relieved to find her safe, and didn’t regret for an instant riding out to look for her. Things might have gone very differently. Not a thought he wanted to linger on.
He put the truck in gear, checked his mirrors, and pulled out after her, meaning to escort her home. Even if she didn’t need it, it was still his honor to do so.
Chapter Four
Carol was exhausted, wet, and cold. All that and
still
she felt full of crackling tension, the potential for sparks packed tight inside her. She felt, in fact, like a match head an instant before it struck to flame.
Was she angry Harlan had come charging out of the snow storm, eager to save her bacon? Or was she touched by the gesture, thrilled by his concern? Or was she both at the same time? She shook her head in irritation, but she couldn’t say if the irritation was because of Harlan or because of her own foolishness.
She and Harlan had finished unloading the food off the trailer and into the kitchen and the pantry. The hay bales had stayed beneath the waterproof tarps tied down on the trailer. No sense in hauling hay around until after the storm. Together they’d double-checked the horses and cattle, crunching through the snow as they walked first to the stables and then to the pens. The stables were dry and draft free, well-protected against the wind, and the horses’ winter coats would protect them from the cold. The cattle didn’t have shelter and had to huddle together as the snow piled up around them. They kept very still, their breath clouding around their heads. Working together, she and Harlan had set up windbreaks around the corrals with the corrugated iron sheeting kept for storms where the snow wouldn’t be bad enough to form huge drifts around the metal.
Now they were headed back to the house to warm up and wait out the storm. She walked behind Harlan, letting him forge a path through the snow because he seemed game enough. She kept one gloved hand on her cowgirl hat so the wind couldn’t snatch it away and she squinted against the snowfall that prickled against her face with tiny icy nips. She ached to escape these wet clothes and put something hot in her belly. The skin on her face felt so cold it seemed to burn. Her lungs ached as though she’d breathed in chips of ice that wouldn’t melt inside her chest.
Harlan stomped up the porch steps and opened the back door for her. She scraped her boots and nodded her thanks, eager to be inside the push of warmth that escaped from the open doorway.
She gave Harlan a lopsided smile, willing herself free of the irritating mix of feelings that had been bothering her since being run off the road. “If you need to run to your trailer to change real quick, go right ahead. I don’t want you catching pneumonia while you’re making me my delicious hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream, carefully stirred so
all
the chocolate is completely dissolved.”
He arched an eyebrow at her.
“Stirred in a careful clock-wise motion,” she continued, stomping her boots free of the last clinging snow, “because I don’t like a hot chocolate swirled counter-clockwise. It goes against the natural order.”
“I’ll stir it however you want, with an eggbeater or cement mixer or any way you can come up with, just so we can get out of this freezing cold.”
She grinned wider and walked inside. He followed and shut the door, cutting off the moaning wind. The house was blissfully warm. The snow on their clothes and jackets immediately started to melt. The mudroom was a tight fit, both of them taking off boots and gloves and jackets. He brushed against her twice on accident and both times set her heart to racing and her stomach aflutter. The second time he’d bumped against her breast and his grave apology amused her to no end. She didn’t let him see either her amusement or how the touch of his hard, muscular body sent lightning bolts of desire zapping through her until she was sure there had to be smoke coming out of her ears.
Finally, they moved from the mudroom to the kitchen. She was glad she’d worn thick socks. Even so, they were damp enough to leave small smudges of wet wherever the balls of her feet touched down.
Harlan headed to the cupboards and brought out some coffee mugs. One of them read “See you in Boot Hill, Tombstone, Arizona”, and the other had pictures of cartoon steers wearing cowboy hats while huddled around a campfire. Her uncle collected coffee mugs from the places he visited on business or vacation. There was a rack of pegs holding a hundred or more inside his office. An odd hobby, and one that drove her aunt to no end of exasperation.
“I’ll take the one with the steers,” she said.
He eyed the mug, rasping a hand across the stubble on his cheek. “Do I need to use a silver spoon for the stirring? Or will any common utensil work? I have a putty knife that might do, come to think of it.”
“Harlan Lee. If you stir my hot chocolate with a putty knife I’ll have my uncle build an outhouse…just so you can clean it.”
“I never thought outhouses were cleaned, ma’am. Part of their appeal.”
“Men,” Carol said, favoring him a wry smirk. “At times I think you belong in the pens with the cattle.”
Their back and forth chatter was easy and familiar, but underneath it she could still sense the tension crackling between them. It was if, being this close to each other, they were building up a static charge that would soon spark, whether they wanted it to or not. All at once, she wanted to put space between them, suddenly afraid of that spark. Their conversation last night about her leaving had…complicated things. And then today, the snowstorm, with Harlan coming to her aid, and although she hadn’t needed the help, his gesture…well, it said something. Didn’t it?
To cover her growing uncertainty, she made a show of stretching and pointing to the sopping wet cuffs of her blue jeans. “I have to get out of these clothes and take a hot shower.”
He watched her intently, his gaze heated. Warmth built in two places inside her—the center of her chest and low down in her groin, both sensations growing in intensity the longer he looked at her and said nothing. She opened her mouth, not having a clue what words would escape, whether they’d be a challenge or an invitation to join her in the shower, the hot water sluicing along their naked flesh, his large hands sliding their way across her skin—
—and her aunt walked into the kitchen, carrying her knitting in one hand. Her hair was steel gray, drawn back into a ponytail, and bifocals perched precariously on her nose. She was knitting Christmas scarves with steers pulling Santa’s sleigh. This year she planned on giving them as gifts to all their relatives. Her aunt even expected Carol’s uncle to wear the various articles of clothing she knitted when he was out working the ranch, no matter how much he complained it made him look a damn silly fool.
“Good that you’re back home safe,” her aunt announced. “I was getting worried.” She flapped her hand holding the half-finished scarf, waving it around like a flag. “You know me. A fretter, born and bred.”
“Nothing to worry about, Aunt June. One of the trucks was late with the hay delivery, that’s all. That’s why it took so long.”
“Some numbskull ran Carol off the road,” Harlan said.
Carol wheeled on him, shocked and angry. She hadn’t wanted to mention the accident because she didn’t like to worry her aunt. Ever. Things had turned out all right. She’d handled the situation. Bringing it up now would only give her aunt something
real
to fret about. Carol didn’t want to be the cause of any worry in her aunt and uncle’s lives.
Now Harlan had gone and spilled it all without even considering that she might want to keep the accident quiet. He seemed to sense that he’d taken a misstep. His expression turned guarded and his mouth tightened into a return frown. They eyed each other in silence, the tension between them deepening. She didn’t like the challenge in his look. This was
her
family, damn it. But even as she had that thought, she was already chastising herself for her selfishness.
Before Carol could speak, her aunt rushed over and put a warm hand on her arm. She looked Carol up and down as if inspecting for injuries worthy of a trip to the emergency room. “What a terrible thing. Are you all right, honey?”
“Not a scratch on me.” She tried on a smile that felt false.
“Did you get his license plate number?”
“No. It happened too fast.” She shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. The driver raced off before I could get the plates. I was more concerned about keeping the rig under control.”
“And Harlan went out to check on you?” Her aunt beamed at him as if he’d rescued a basket full of puppies from plunging over Niagara Falls.