Gil went after Carmelita, weaving through the couples filtering onto the dance floor. She paused beside the bandstand to kick off her moccasins, stomp into insulated boots, and shove her arms into a hooded Pendleton blanket coat. He handed her the rope, and she stuffed it into a bag with the discarded pieces of her costume while he zipped his own insulated jacket. November was more like winter than fall up here in the north country.
When the back door of the bar thumped shut behind them, Carmelita stopped and dragged in a long, deep breath. Her words came out in puffs of vapor. “God, that was suffocating.”
The closeness of the overcrowded bar? The argument with Jolene? The attention? “Why did you come?”
“My grandmother volunteered my services. Fund-raisers are the worst, though. Everyone is so…” Her hands fluttered in a broad circle, encompassing the tearful outpourings of gratitude that marked benefits.
“You’re used to being in the spotlight.”
“I prefer an audience to a crowd,” she said flatly.
And the difference was in the separation. She could walk off a stage without interacting with the masses. But she didn’t seem to mind connecting with him, and despite what the charming Jolene had implied, the attraction between them was undeniably real. He could feel it even now, in the frigid air, with their bodies separated by layers of canvas and wool.
She tipped her head back to gaze into the heavens and her body language slowly shifted, as if she was drawing in the stillness. When she started off through the parking lot, she once again moved with fluid grace. Gil matched her stride, closing the space between them so his coat sleeve swished against hers.
“Bing told me about you, and introduced me to your…friend,” she said.
With that slight hesitation, she summed up Gil’s uncertainty about his relationship with Hank, past and future. “I’m his sponsor,” he corrected stiffly.
“Mmm.” A sound that translated to if that’s what you want to tell yourself. “We lack many things up here on the rez, but we do not have a shortage of recovering addicts.”
Unfortunately true, but none of them would be in Texas when Hank was sucker punched by what Gil knew was waiting for him…and hadn’t been able to tell him. “I watched Hank grow up. I understand him.”
She angled a searching glance beneath lowered lashes. “I see.”
Yes, she did. There was something in the way she looked at him—through him—that made him want to both hide and move closer. He did neither. The breeze caught her hair, sending a strand fluttering and carrying the scent of pine needles and snow down from the mountains. Their shoulders bumped as they squeezed between parked cars, toward the gleaming red hulk of his truck, the white box trailer a bright billboard in the far reaches of the bar’s security lights.
He swung around to face her as they stopped beside the door to his cab, and when he looked into her eyes, he felt as if he was losing his balance, falling into one of the bottomless mountain lakes—only much warmer. He could just keep sinking and sinking…
She caught him, pressing her hands flat against his chest, but her smile was tinged with regret. “I wish I could stay. You and I would be very good together, I think.”
The image of Carmelita naked and lush under his hands sent heat shuddering through him. Then he registered what she was saying.
“You’re leaving?” Gil frowned at her in disbelief.
The hitch of her shoulder set the moonlight shimmering through her hair. “I can’t leave my grandparents with a sick baby.”
“His mother didn’t seem overly concerned.” Gil’s voice was harsh, along with his judgment. Even when he’d been regularly popping Vicodin like breath mints, he’d managed to stay clean on the weekends he’d had his son.
Her gaze slid away from his. “She knows I’ll take care of them all.”
“Instead of yourself?” And Gil, dammit.
Carmelita smoothed her palms over the front of his jacket. “Next time?”
“I won’t be back.”
She angled her head to give him another searching look, then nodded. “You’re taking Hank home. That explains it.”
“What?”
“This.” Her hand moved down, pressing with unerring accuracy over the clutch in his gut. She reached up with the other to brush cool fingers over the knot of tension in his forehead. “And this.”
He wanted to lean into that touch—into her—and let her wipe his mind clean for a few hours.
“I’m sorry I can’t do more.” She stroked a blissful circle on his temple. “But I can give you something for that headache.”
“A fistful of ibuprofen?”
“A promise.” Her eyes were steady, her tone certain. “Hank will be fine. He’s stronger than you think, and whatever you’re keeping from him, he’ll understand it was for the best. So will the others.”
Gil jerked his head back. “I never said anything to Bing about that.”
Her hands fell away and she angled her gaze upward, eyes going distant. In the Panhandle the stars were painted on the sky. Here it seemed as if they were standing among them.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just feel it. But I’m almost always right.”
Without warning, she tipped onto her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were cool, but at the touch of her tongue the glowing embers they’d been gathering between them burst into flame, whooshing through him like a prairie fire. His thoughts, the last of his reservations, the ability to think at all were consumed by a wall of heat. He gripped the lapels of her coat to drag her hard against him, and she fisted her hands in the sides of his jacket, pressing even closer. Her tongue slid over his, the friction setting off more sparks.
Too many clothes, coats, infinite layers separating them. He growled in sheer frustration, pushing his hands inside the collar of her coat to find the only accessible skin, curling his fingers around the nape of her neck and feeling her pulse hammer against his thumb. Her hair flowed cool over the backs of his hands, an almost painful contrast to the fire raging between them.
Her fingers skimmed through his hair, nails digging into his scalp and creating another layer of exquisite pain that intensified the sharp, nearly unbearable stab of need. He took a step, pulling her with him as he fumbled for the door of the truck.
A palpable shudder ran through her. She braced her hands on his shoulders, slowly, inexorably separating her mouth from his.
“Well, that got out of control in a hurry.” Her unsteady laugh was a puff of steam in the space she’d created.
His hands tightened in the thick folds of her coat, and it was all he could do not to drag her close again. The desperation leaked into his voice. “Don’t go yet. Give me an hour, at least.”
She blinked her gaze into focus and shook her head. “I don’t like to rush good things, and it’s gonna take a lot more than an hour to do this justice.”
Geezus. Was she trying to kill him?
“I know. The timing sucks.” She smiled, a copper-skinned Madonna with fathomless eyes, and pressed a palm over his thundering heart. “You should get some rest, Gil Sanchez. You’ve got a long drive tomorrow.”
He stared at her in disbelief. How could she admit the power of their attraction in one breath, and shrug him off in the next? “That’s all? We’re just…done?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Her gaze tracked across the sky before coming back to meet his. “We’ll see what the stars have in mind.”
“I don’t believe in Fate.”
Her laugh was a low, husky rasp that played across every hypersensitive nerve in his body. “Well then, you should’ve steered clear of a woman called Carma.”
She touched his cheek one last time, then turned and walked away. Watching the taillights of her car disappear into the darkness, Gil jammed his empty hands into the pockets of his coat, threw his head back,
and swore at the twinkling Milky Way. She was really gone. Just like that.
But she’d left what felt like a permanent impression.
Why was he even surprised? This was just about his luck. The fact was, he’d lied about not believing in Fate. He was on close personal terms with that stone-cold bitch, and recognized the distant, spiteful echo of her laughter.
Chapter 2
Earnest, Texas—Christmas Day
Six weeks later, the memory of that kiss still burned whenever Gil let it slip past his defenses—and today they were worn down by an overdose of holiday cheer, cinnamon-spiced candles, and public displays of affection.
Fucking Christmas. It was practically designed to string bright, blinking lights around every empty space in his life, especially when his son was three hours away in Oklahoma City. Even Gil wasn’t selfish enough to drag the kid away from his sisters on the big day.
Tomorrow Gil would drive over to bring Quint back to Earnest for the rest of the holiday break. Today he was the only unattached adult in the room, unless he counted his dad snoozing in a worn recliner—and Gil did not. Single was Merle’s happy place. If he hadn’t been saddled with the care and feeding of two young boys, Gil wasn’t sure he would’ve even noticed when their mother left.
A lot of years and twelve steps later, Gil had figured out that Merle’s indifference was a big part of why she’d never come back. Might’ve been nice to know that when he was six. Or he might’ve just resented both parents.
Grown-up Gil understood why his mother had to leave. There had been no one else to care for her ailing parents, and no persuading her father to leave their remote hogan, and Rochelle Yazzie Sanchez hadn’t been wrong when she’d insisted it was better for Gil and Delon to stay in Earnest, where they had friends, sports, a good school, and their father—when he wasn’t on the road. And gaining Steve and Iris Jacobs as surrogate parents had been one helluva consolation prize. Some of the best hours of Gil’s life had been spent in this big old frame house…even when he felt like the one mismatched sock.
He paused in the archway between kitchen and living room, too fidgety to sit. Once the table had been cleared, Miz Iris had shooed them away from the cleanup. Now she and Steve stood shoulder to shoulder, washing and drying pots and pans with the wordless efficiency of decades of marriage. Their oldest daughter, Lily, was a round ball of joy eight months into a long-awaited pregnancy, tipped back in a recliner while her husband hovered protectively.
Violet Jacobs Cassidy staggered down the stairs and collapsed onto a couch next to her own husband with a gusty sigh. “Rosie’s down for the count.”
“Thank God. A couple hours of peace on earth.” Joe rubbed a hand over his well-fed but still-flat belly. “I believe I’ll follow her example and sneak over to our house for a nap.”
“I’m in,” Violet said.
“Hah. Nap. So that’s what they’re calling it these days,” Gil’s sister-in-law, Tori, said, from where she was tucked under his little brother Delon’s arm on the love seat.
Violet flapped a limp hand toward the den turned game room. “Shhh. Child present.”
Twelve-year-old Beni—son of Violet and Delon from a time long before either had found their happy endings elsewhere—was sprawled on his stomach in the den, waging low-volume carnage in his new video game. Behind him, the world’s most unlikely couple had lapsed into a post-turkey coma on the massive sectional sofa. Cole Jacobs had one big hand buried in Shawnee’s mop of curls, cradling her head against his chest. She looked almost…okay, sweet might be pushing it. But not her usual salty self.
Gil deliberately looked away from all that wedded bliss, only to be blinded by Hank’s grin. The lovesick moron hadn’t moved two feet from Grace’s side all day. All the Brookmans were gathered around the kitchen table playing pitch, although in Gil’s experience they might as well just hand over their chips to Hank’s older sister, Melanie. Or her husband, Wyatt, who was a shark at a whole lot more than cards. Grace had been a sheltered child, lacking the killer instinct, and Hank sucked at strategy even when he wasn’t goggle-eyed. Hank’s dad wasn’t much better, mooning just as obviously over Bing.
Geezus. Now there was a shock. Who would’ve guessed that she’d come rampaging down here from Montana to protect Hank from Johnny, and end up falling for the man instead?
Even Carma hadn’t seen that coming.
Carma. Carmelita. Her name melted in Gil’s thoughts like homemade fudge with bits of cool peppermint. Her prediction had been right on the nose. Hank was more than fine, and he had forgiven Gil…eventually. It was still driving Gil nuts, though, wondering how Carma had known. She couldn’t actually see the future.
Could she?
Bing lifted an eyebrow, and Gil realized he was staring. He looked away, but there was no escape from the suffocating coupleness on all sides. His mouth twisted as he realized he was the nineteenth wheel. Seemed about right for a glorified truck driver…and this spare tire was ready to hit the road.
He turned abruptly and went to clap Steve on the shoulder, dropping a kiss on the top of Miz Iris’s head. “Thanks. Dinner was awesome as always.”
“Leaving already?” Steve asked.
Gil shrugged. “The trucks keep on rolling, even today.”
“I suppose you’re going to hole up in that office of yours.” Miz Iris turned to study his eyes, concern creasing her forehead. Alone. On a holiday. Is that a good idea?
“I’m going to call Quint,” he promised her. “He can tell me about his loot, and we’ll decide what we want to do for New Year’s.”
“Tell Quint to call me soon as he gets here!” Beni called out as Gil zipped his jacket. Everyone else called their goodbyes as he left. No one tried to stop him. They were used to Gil being the last to arrive and the first to leave.
Outside, the air was damp with the remnants of the previous night’s freezing fog, but the ice and hoarfrost had melted under today’s clear blue sky. Purple dusk was gathering when Gil parked his Charger in front of the shop at Sanchez Trucking. Unlike at his cold, dark house, someone always left a light on in the office. The comforting aromas of grease and stale coffee greeted him, but his computer monitors didn’t offer up the usual heaping helping of distractions. The trucks might still roll on Christmas but most warehouses and businesses were shut down, so there was only a handful of loads to pick up or drop off and very little traffic to snarl their schedule.
Nothing in his email but tidings of comfort and joy…dammit.
Gil cradled his cell phone, checking the time. He hadn’t lied to Miz Iris about talking to Quint, but he knew better than to call in the middle of the Barron family’s formal evening meal. Quint’s grandfather had never hidden how he felt about Gil, but he treated Quint as well as any of his other kin. Rather than stir up trouble for his son, Gil would find something to occupy the time—and his mind—as Christmas Day drifted into evening.
He should call his mother. In the past few years, she had made a real effort to reconnect, especially with her grandsons. She and Quint got along great, and she never turned down an invitation to a championship game or one of his choir concerts. Gil reluctantly pulled up her number in his contacts. If all else failed—as it generally did—they could always talk about how things were going with the business.
The phone buzzed in his hand, and he jerked as if he’d been stung. His heart thudded when he saw that the unfamiliar number started with 406. Montana. The only state with a single telephone prefix.
His finger wasn’t quite steady when he tapped the screen. The first GIF was Simon Cowell at his most know-it-all smug. What did I tell you? The second was a cheesy fortune-teller waving her hands dramatically over a crystal ball. Never doubt the power of Carma.
Gil stared at the texts, almost convinced it was a prank. He didn’t have to ask how she’d gotten his cell number. It was listed on the Sanchez Trucking websit
e for all their clients to see. He started to punch out How did you know about Hank and Grace?
Then he stopped. Duh. Bing, of course. And firing a question like that back at Carma made it sound like he wasn’t happy to hear from her. He was way too happy for his pride or his peace of mind. But how was he supposed to play this?
Hey! What’s up?
Because they were both still in junior high, apparently. Delete, delete, delete.
Wanna meet me in Wyoming some weekend so I can take that rain check you promised?
Probably not a good choice, either. Since words were failing him, he found a GIF of Hermione from the Harry Potter movies rolling her eyes and slow-clapping in mocking approval. His thumb wavered—God, was he actually nervous?—before he hit Send.
The wait was interminable. Finally, his phone pinged with a GIF of an owl-eyed old Englishwoman looking down her snooty nose. Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.
The hell she said.
He texted her back a meme of a Katharine Hepburn type playing the classy broad, complete with cigarette holder. Sarcasm is an art, darling. If it was a science, I’d have a PhD.
Her reply was a smirking dude bro flashing a peace sign. Just messin’ with you, man.
And he’d chomped on the bait. He grinned, but before he could figure out what to say next, another image popped up, silver stars in a midnight-blue sky.
Happy everything. Sweet dreams.
Damn. That was it? Disappointment dragged the smile off his face as he signed off with a winking Santa emoji. Bleh. So weak. He set the phone on the desk, face up. With one fingertip he scrolled to the top of the exchange, then back down again.
And sitting there in the mostly dark office without another soul around, he felt less alone than he had all day.
Chapter 3
Glacier County—mid-January
Carma wasn’t the only one in her family with special talents. There were legends stretching back for generations before the Blackfeet had been corralled on the reservation, stories of those in the White Elk line who could supposedly read minds…and the future.
Relentless in Texas Page 2
