“Fine.” Instead of slamming out of the office like Gil would’ve done back in the day, Quint shut the door behind him with a sedate click.
Fuck.
Tonight Gil would knock off at six, go home, and stay there. Analise could handle whatever shitstorm was brewing here—and Gil had to make himself let her. He’d always known his insane work hours and the need to have his hands on every aspect of the business were alternative forms of dependency. Hell, he wasn’t even special. Half the recovered addicts he knew were workaholics, control freaks, or both. Shuffling paperwork until two in the morning had been a damn sight better than closing down the bars—and until now there’d been no one at home to care.
Unfortunately, he’d constructed an entire trucking company around his compulsions. The business couldn’t change overnight because he had suddenly acquired a family life, and to top it off they’d lost another receptionist. Apparently even the graveyard shift at the all-night diner in Dumas was better than working with Gil.
He swore yet again when the main phone rang and no one picked it up. Delon was on another call in their dad’s office, and Analise wouldn’t be in for another five minutes. She was worth her weight in gold…and the ass-chewing Gil had gotten when he’d lured her away from Jacobs Livestock with a hefty raise and the promise that she could wear whatever she wanted.
If only he could clone her. And himself.
Letting the phone go to voicemail, he shot to his feet, strode through the reception area and into the manager’s office just as Delon hung up the phone.
“Do you have anyone lined up to interview?” Gil demanded.
“Have you seen the applications?” Delon waved a weary hand at a folder on the corner of his desk. “No one knows the difference between a cattle hauler and a reefer, and two of them can’t spell ‘references’…or provide any.”
The main line started to ring again. Gil ground out another curse. “Grab that damn thing before I smash it with the nearest wrench. I’m going to the weight room.”
Maybe in the process of banging some weights around he’d figure out what to do about the empty receptionist’s desk. Or how to give Quint more of his time when the work was piling up faster than he and Analise could get it done, and Delon was due to take off to California for a two-week rodeo trip.
He didn’t bother to change into workout gear, just grabbed a set of kettlebells to warm up, their weight nothing compared to the constant pressure bearing down on him. There were fifty drivers counting on him for their livelihood, a shitpile of clients who’d put their freight in his hands, and a son who deserved more than what Gil had left over when the rest were done with him.
And a sneaky, sympathetic voice that insisted he’d earned a stiff drink.
Gil dropped the kettlebells onto the rack, his arms burning. When he was done here, he’d call his sponsor. They just had their regular coffee date after the Tuesday night meeting in Dumas, but since Quint’s arrival they chatted a lot more often. As a single parent herself, Tamela could relate. Gil had watched her maintain her sobriety while seeing her two sons through junior high and high school—proof that it could be done.
But unfortunately, he’d also seen that it never got much easier.
Chapter 6
The cops had barely contained their eye rolls when Carma admitted that yes, she had probably left the door unlocked and her purse in plain sight. Easy pickings. They’d taken down her information and promised to call if anything turned up, but no one pretended she had a prayer of getting her stuff back. Whoever had her phone was at least smart enough to turn it off, thwarting a signal trace.
The helpful truck-stop clerk had offered her use of their phone—but Carma had decided against calling Bing’s office. The mental health clinic was another half hour north of Earnest in Bluegrass, and knowing Bing, she’d cancel the rest of her patients and rush to the rescue, which was not necessary. If Carma left immediately, she’d be at the Brookman ranch before her cousin had time to worry, so she crawled in her van and started driving while her head was clear and her stomach reasonably quiet.
It was almost five o’clock when she broke free of the Amarillo suburbs and onto open highway. Around forty-five miles north to Dumas, then fifteen east to Earnest, then a dozen north to the ranch. At Dumas her stomach started to knot. She gritted her teeth and tried to bargain with her uncooperative body. Just hang with me for another half an hour. Then we can keel over, and I swear I will never be this stupid again.
The prairie crept by in slow motion, until finally she crawled past a massive, low-slung wooden building with a huge neon longhorn head mounted above the doors. The Lone Steer Saloon. Bing had mentioned that the honky-tonk was only a few miles outside of town. Carma drew in a relieved breath—and her gut spasmed at the scent of grilled beef.
Oh God. She wasn’t going to make it.
She searched desperately for a spot to pull over along the narrow, shoulderless highway. Nothing, nothing, nothing…and then she crested a small rise and came upon a large steel-sided building, pale yellow with red and black trim, surrounded by a gravel parking lot, chain-link fence, and gleaming semis, all sporting the same unmistakable logo.
Of course the first place she came to would be Sanchez Trucking.
The next spasm twisted her stomach so hard, she nearly swerved off the road. Hell. She turned into the wide gates and pulled to a stop by a door marked Office, slumping over the steering wheel as she put the van in park. It had to be around six o’clock Texas time, but a flashy red car and a couple of service pickups were still parked outside.
Double hell. If they’d all been gone for the day, she could have retched behind their neatly pruned bushes, then collapsed on her bed with the air-conditioning cranked until she was fit to drive on. Now she’d have to go inside.
The instant her feet hit the ground, her vision went gray around the edges. She lurched to the shop door and all but fell inside. A dizzying jumble of racks and tools and partially disassembled trucks filled the space to her left. Her stomach lurched again, and she blinked hard, trying to focus. There had to be a bathroom. Maybe through that door on the right. She braced one hand on the wall as she wobbled toward it.
“Can I help you?”
Her head jerked around, almost tilting her off-balance. It took a moment to locate the boy who had stepped from behind the nearest truck, packing a long-handled broom.
“Gil?” she croaked.
“In the office.” The kid pointed toward the door.
“Thanks.” Her vision fuzzed again, so she got only a vague impression of a cramped reception area and rows of filing cabinets before a movement caught her attention. Past another door on her right, a man rose from a desk, a blurred shape against a window filled with sunlight so blinding Carma had to close her eyes.
“Hello. Is there something… Whoa, are you sick?” The familiar voice held surprise, concern…and no hint of recognition.
Seriously? After that kiss, and all those texts, he didn’t even recognize her? As if this wasn’t humiliating enough. Thank God she had decided not to let him know she was coming, as if she expected him to want to see her. She clutched the doorframe, trying to force her brain to make words come out of her mouth. “I… We…”
Her legs buckled. As her hands and knees hit the floor, a trash can was shoved under her nose and she retched up what had to be her intestinal lining. There was nothing else left.
When she paused to gasp for air, another, almost identical, voice came from behind her. “What the hell?”
“I was hoping you knew,” the man in front of her drawled. “Otherwise, my wife will not be amused.”
Wait. Now that she heard him speak again, that voice wasn’t quite right. Relief cascaded through her as she realized she had staggered in on the wrong Sanchez brother.
“She asked for Gil,” the teenager from the shop said. “She looked
pretty desperate. Geez, Dad. Did you knock up another one?”
Carma jerked upright. “I am not—”
Then everything went white as she fainted.
* * *
Carma was finally in Gil’s bed, but these were not the circumstances he’d imagined in such frequent, vivid detail. She wasn’t supposed to be in the vacant apartment above the office. His fantasies had all involved a truck sleeper. Parked somewhere far from this place where he worked. And lived.
Gil paused at the door to the bedroom, trying not to stare outright. God, it was so weird. This woman seemed even more like a stranger than when he’d met her in Montana, and it wasn’t just because she looked like Death’s daughter. He’d been communicating with her for months and didn’t have a clue what to say now.
Maybe he could leave his phone on her pillow with a Text me note and Analise’s number.
He tucked the sheet up to her chin. The apartment was musty, but clean. The nurse on call at the clinic in Dumas had agreed that it did sound like food poisoning, instructing him to try to get some fluids in her and to bring her in if she couldn’t keep anything down by morning.
He laid the back of his hand on her forehead. She wasn’t running a fever, but she shifted restlessly under his touch.
“Feeling any better?” he asked softly.
She didn’t open her eyes. “As long as I don’t move.”
“I’ll be right outside. Yell if you need me.”
She winced, as if the idea of raising her voice was physically painful. “You’ll call Bing?”
“Right now. Try to sleep.”
He edged a plastic bucket closer to the bed, then paced through the apartment and outside, leaving the door open a crack. The evening sun was warm on his back as he leaned on the railing of the exposed second-floor landing, where the conversation wouldn’t disturb Carma but he was within earshot if she needed him.
When Bing picked up, she said, “Hey, Gil. I’m heading into a group session so I’ve only got a minute. What’s up?”
“I have someone here you might be looking for.”
There was a puzzled beat of silence, then, “Carma? What’s she doing with you?”
So Carma hadn’t intended to pop in the minute she arrived in Earnest. He’d figured. “Funny you’ve never mentioned her.”
“Neither have you.”
Point taken. And he refused to ask if they had discussed him. “Are the two of you close?”
“Reasonably, given the age difference. We’re first cousins. My mother is the oldest and her dad is the youngest of five.”
He should have guessed. They had a certain look, not to mention attitude. “I can’t believe you haven’t given me shit about this. It’s not like you to butt out.”
She laughed her low, throaty laugh. “Carma is the exception.”
“To what rule?”
“All of them.” Bing’s voice sharpened with concern. “Why am I talking to you instead of her?”
Gil sketched out what he’d been able to gather about Carma’s situation, including the stolen purse.
Bing swore. “As soon as I’m done here, I’ll come by and pick her up.”
“Don’t. I put her in the apartment. She’s comfortable and not throwing up…for now.”
“Then I’ll have Johnny bring me some clothes so I can stay with her.”
“If you want, but I already sent Quint home with Delon. I can crash here on the couch.” Lord knew he’d mopped up plenty of vomit, between looking out for Delon when they were kids and Quint’s motion sickness—not to mention the times Gil had woken up in a puddle of his own puke. At least Carma hadn’t upchucked on the shag carpet of that van, which appeared to also be her current home. “How long has she been on the road?”
“About six weeks.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking to people and seeing places.”
Which told him absolutely nothing. “Is she on some kind of pilgrimage?”
“I’d call it more of an expedition.”
“To where?”
“It’s more of a what. And you’ll have to ask her if you want to know more.”
Gil tried another angle. “How long is she planning to stay with you?”
“As long as it takes.”
She was toying with him. Gil clenched his teeth, refusing to let her hear his frustration.
“Doesn’t she have a job back home?” he asked.
“Whenever she wants one. Substitute teacher, backup receptionist at Indian Health Service, ranch hand, dealer at the casino… Carma can do about anything.”
And Bing hadn’t even mentioned the trick roping, or the list of movie credits, which Gil had found when he’d typed her name into an Internet search engine, as either an extra or a stunt rider. If she’d had dreams of being a headliner, they hadn’t panned out. Along with any of her other careers.
“She’s not flighty or irresponsible or any of those things you’re thinking,” Bing said.
“What is she?”
Bing made a sound that was half laugh, half sigh. “It’s not my place to explain Carma, even if I could. And I’ve got to go to my meeting. I’ll see you later.”
* * *
When Bing arrived, Carma was asleep. The older woman peeked in at her, nodded in satisfaction, and ordered Gil to call if she was needed. He followed her down to her car.
“You could have warned me she was coming,” he said, then immediately regretted it when her eyebrows soared.
“I didn’t realize it was an issue.”
Shit. Now he’d made her think it bothered him. “It was just awkward,” he said stiffly. “I have to think of Quint now.”
Her eyes gleamed with merciless humor. “And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I mean, there was nothing to tell. Carma and I just…” He cut an annoyed hand through the air. “Never mind. Go home and torture Johnny. I’ll give her a phone so she can call if she wakes up and wants to talk to you.”
Bing laughed, gave a cheeky wave, and left Gil with no more of a clue about Carma’s intentions than when the conversation started.
Damned maddening woman.
Chapter 7
When Carma woke up, Gil was lounging on the couch directly outside the open bedroom door. Her entire body ached, her mouth tasted like sewage, every individual hair on her head hurt—and still the man gave her a jolt. She’d told herself that she’d exaggerated his raw sexuality, that it was a figment of her own desperation that night at the bar.
If anything, her memory hadn’t done him justice.
She kept still, studying him from beneath her lashes as she tried to get a reading on his mood. Some people were easy, their emotions glowing like bright, primary reds, blues, and yellows. Others were like the chaotic smears and swirls of a child’s finger-painting, the colors going muddy where they mixed.
And some, like Gil, were a kaleidoscope of the thousand subtle shades between. No sooner would she make out a certain shape or tint than it would shift.
Tonight she got the impression that even he wasn’t sure how he was feeling. His head was tipped back against the couch cushion, his face shadowed by his thoughts and late-day scruff as his agile fingers picked out the sensuous notes of “Tennessee Whiskey” on his guitar.
She wasn’t the only one remembering.
“You’re gonna have to wait a day or two if you want to see me dance,” she said.
Gil jerked, then squinted at her, annoyed at being caught off guard. “Are you going to be sick again?”
“I don’t think so.” She blinked a few times, her eyelids gummy. “It doesn’t hurt to look at you anymore.”
He folded his arms on top of the guitar. “I didn’t know my face could inflict pain.”
“No, I just swoon at the sound of your voice.” S
he gingerly pushed onto her elbow. When the change in altitude didn’t wreak havoc, she said, “Did you catch the stray dog that crapped in my mouth?”
“’Fraid not, but there’s breath mints, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a glass of water on the nightstand.”
She glanced over, then back at him, eyebrows sketching a question.
“I’ve had a lot of practice at waking up feeling like shit,” he said.
She let that pass without comment, levering herself upright by degrees, then shook a mint out of the plastic box and set it on her tongue. When her stomach didn’t immediately revolt, she rolled it around her mouth. At least her breath would be fresh. The rest of her…ugh. Her peach-colored shirt and khaki shorts were grubby and creased, and lank strands from her braid straggled into her eyes.
So much for that killer turquoise sundress she’d bought for the express purpose of knocking his socks off the next time they met.
He slung an arm along the back of the couch, body relaxed, dark eyes cool and appraising. “Bing stopped by, but she didn’t want to wake you. We thought you’d rather stay put.”
“Thanks.” She had a woozy memory of him hauling her down a hallway and up a set of stairs. Was anyone else still hanging around downstairs? Carma pulled the elastic off and began working her hair out of the braid. “So…that’s your son.”
“Yeah.” Gil made a pained face. “I’m sorry. His sense of humor is a little…unpredictable.”
She shrugged. “I did make quite an entrance.”
“He’s gonna apologize to you.” And make it good, Gil’s expression implied.
“If you insist.” She’d rather hear the story behind that specific joke, but Bing could tell her. Carma twisted her head to the side, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “God, I reek.”
And Gil had had ample opportunity to appreciate her stench. Wow. Could she get any sexier?
“I brought your suitcase in so you could change,” he said.
She grimaced. “I need a shower first.”
Relentless in Texas Page 5
