Relentless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  The argument shifted into a negotiation, with Gil wringing every advantage out of an otherwise negative situation. Damn, he was good. And he was enjoying himself, a born warrior fully engaged in battle. He would be a movie director’s dream in nothing but a few feathers, paint, and a loincloth, astride a horse honed to an equally lethal combination of sinew and muscle.

  Carma dragged her mind out of the fantasy and into the present, where the message light on the receptionist’s phone blinked. And blinked. She couldn’t stand it. Circling the desk, she settled into the chair, located a pad and pen, then pushed the playback button. She could at least do this much to earn her night’s stay.

  As she worked through the voicemails, she sorted the notes into piles for Gil, Delon, and Merle, who she assumed was their father. She had just scribbled down the last message when Delon walked in and did a double take.

  “Good morning,” she said. When he blinked in response to her smile, she added, “I’m Carma. The one who swan-dived onto your office floor?”

  “Actually, it was more of a belly flop.” He hung back as if he feared a repeat performance. “I take it you’re feeling better.”

  “Much. These are your messages.” She held out the stack of notes addressed to him.

  Delon blinked again, then took the pink slips. While he leafed through them, the phone rang.

  Carma picked up. “Sanchez Trucking. Can I help you?”

  “Oh! Are you new?”

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, um…” The woman left a space for Carma to insert her name. She refrained. The caller couldn’t find a reason to ask outright who she was and what she was doing there, so finally said, “I need a digital image of the company logo for the ad in the high school rodeo program.”

  “Not a problem. If you’ll give me your email address, someone will get it to you as soon as possible,” Carma promised.

  She ended the call and looked up to find Delon gazing in awe at one of the slips. “You got rid of Billy Ray?”

  “For now. I assume he’ll be back.”

  Delon clutched the scrap of paper to the Freightliner logo on his black T-shirt, his smile so brilliant her breath caught. He was even prettier in person, built on a shorter, thicker frame than his brother. “You’re hired.”

  Carma’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Our receptionist left…again. Need a job?”

  She laughed. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t—”

  “Why not?” Gil cut in.

  She whipped around to find him lounging against the filing cabinet beside his door. “I’ve got, um…”

  “What? From what Bing said, it sounds like you can set your own schedule.” Like Delon, he wore jeans, running shoes, and a just-snug-enough T-shirt. If this was the company dress code, Carma was all for it. He folded his arms, doing even nicer things for the T-shirt. “Obviously, we need the help. I can make it worth your while.”

  The gleam in his eye said he wasn’t just talking money, but his tone was all business.

  She shook her head, fighting the tug of his considerable will. “You don’t even know if I can operate a computer.”

  “But you got rid of Billy Ray,” Delon repeated. “And you can’t be any worse than the last one.”

  “Was she the weird girl?” Carma asked, echoing Billy Ray.

  “No. That’s Analise,” Gil said. “She’s not weird. She’s a force.”

  Carma glanced at the overflowing inbox. “Then why…”

  “She’s also the only one who’s allowed to touch Gil’s precious dispatching system,” Delon said. “She works the night shift. I’m PR, so I’m in and out when I’m not on the road. Gil generally works all the hours of all the days.”

  Carma tapped the stack of notes for Merle Sanchez. “What about your dad?”

  “He schmoozes the clients after I get done pissing them off,” Gil said. “And handles administrative odds and ends. Right now he’s at his cabin over by Lake Texhoma.”

  When they were short-staffed and Delon was due to leave for ten days? The question must’ve reflected on her face because Gil hitched a shoulder. “He had the trip planned before What’s Her Name quit.”

  “I see.” But when did Gil have time to be a parent? “So I would mainly make the damn phone stop ringing and fend off the idiots you claim to attract by the dozens?”

  His grin slashed at the reminder of the meme he’d sent…and her response. “You can have your very own Whac-A-Mole hammer.”

  “I’m missing something here.” Delon’s eyes narrowed a fraction, looking from one of them to the other. “Will you at least consider the job?”

  And let him hit the road with a clear conscience? She could feel the guilt dragging at him. How could he leave Gil scrambling to cover everything while he took off rodeoing? Carma could make it much easier for him.

  Which should play in her favor when she met his wife, Tori, who was the driving force behind the Patterson equine therapy program. But sleeping with his brother might not be such a great strategy, which was why Carma had intended to keep her distance from Gil until after she’d established a connection at the clinic.

  So much for that plan. She and Gil had crossed too many lines the night before to step back again. If she was going to do this—and helping out for a while seemed like the straightest path to what she needed—they would just have to keep it from getting messy. She leaned back in her chair and waggled a finger between herself and Gil. “What about us?”

  “And this is where I check out,” Delon said.

  Carma thrust up a hand to stop him. “No. We need a witness.”

  Gil’s eyebrows slanted in amusement. “To avoid accusations of sexual harassment in the workplace?”

  “By you…or me?”

  That brought a flare of the now-familiar desire scorching along her nerves. His eyes sparked with challenge. “I’m good at separating business and pleasure.”

  “Which means…?” she asked.

  Their gazes locked with a nearly audible zap! His mouth curled. “I will refrain from bending you over my desk…when you’re on the clock.”

  He was being deliberately crude, testing her limits. If she blushed or stammered, he would withdraw one of his offers—and she’d bet it would be the sex. Gil’s emotions might be a tough read but his priorities were very clear.

  “I’ll try not to hump your leg every time I catch you alone,” she countered, matching his sarcasm edge for edge.

  Delon made a choked sound and retreated a step. “I really think I should—”

  “Stay,” Carma and Gil commanded simultaneously. She raised her forefinger. “Rule number one: No molesting each other in the office. Number two: What happens outside the office stays outside. No sulking or sniping inside these walls.”

  “That would be a nice change,” Delon drawled.

  Gil ignored him. “Agreed.”

  “I can’t commit to anything long term.”

  One corner of Gil’s mouth quirked at how that declaration could be misinterpreted. “All we ask is two weeks’ notice. Do we have a deal?”

  “Not quite.” This job—and this man—could easily consume her, and she couldn’t let her mission be derailed. “I can only work four days a week.”

  Gil’s brows slammed together. “Monday and Friday are when I need you the most.”

  “Pick any weekday. And I’ll work ten hours on the others so I’m still putting in my forty.”

  “Fine,” Gil said. “You can have Tuesdays.”

  She smiled, knowing he expected her to argue that Tuesdays were useless. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” He stepped forward and they shook on it, the brisk clasp generating a hot pulse of lust from the skin-to-skin contact. “Now we have a deal?”

  “Now we do.”

  Then
the phone rang, a series of beeps sounded from Gil’s office, and Delon’s cell chimed. Before they all turned to answer their respective summons, Gil said, “Delon can give you the passwords and a quick intro to the software that runs everything. When Analise gets here at four, she’ll start showing you the rest.” His mouth pressed into an uncompromising line. “And you will go upstairs and rest if you start feeling puny.”

  She snapped off a salute that would have done her brother proud. “Yes, boss.”

  He rolled his eyes and disappeared into his office. Carma reached for the phone, passing the caller off to Delon before settling in to attempt to comprehend the inner workings of Sanchez Trucking.

  And the man who appeared to make it all tick.

  Chapter 9

  At just before eleven, Delon rapped once on Gil’s door and settled into the extra chair, meaning this was going to be an actual conversation. Gil muted his computer and tossed his Bluetooth earpiece on the desk.

  “I sent Carma upstairs to rest—she was looking a little peaked.” Delon folded his arms. “She’s an interesting woman.”

  “I noticed. What’s that look for?” Gil snapped, when Delon kept staring at him.

  “Your love life has been nothing but a series of right swipes and out-of-town overnighters since they invented dating apps. Now you’re planting your latest in our office? I’m trying to figure out what this means.”

  “That we needed a receptionist, and one dropped right in our laps. Bing told me that Carma works off and on at Indian Health Service. You know what Beth deals with at Tori’s office, with all the insurance, juggling schedules, and crap from patients. If Carma can handle that, she can handle us.”

  Delon considered, then grinned. “Damn. You almost made me wonder if that’s all there is to it.”

  Gil flipped him off.

  Delon paid no attention. “I’m also curious. Yesterday you said you’d only met her once—and that got cut short.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So how do you already have inside jokes?”

  Gil flushed as if he’d been passing secret notes under his desk to the cute girl in science class.

  “It must be karma.” He leaned into the sarcasm to cover his reaction, then asked, “Has Beni said anything else about how Quint’s getting along at school?”

  Delon took a beat to decide whether to let him change the subject, then hitched a shoulder. “Not much. He says the kids are all kinda intimidated. They know Krista’s family is a big deal in Oklahoma City, and you know how Quint can be.”

  Gil did. And he didn’t. Krista had assured him the boy was what the therapist had labeled naturally reserved, which was not the same as shy. Quint was extremely well spoken when he chose, or the situation required. He was just…discerning was the word the shrink had used. Freakishly mature, in Gil’s opinion, which was probably also a tad off-putting to the average small-town eighth grader.

  Or Quint was learning that being Gil Sanchez’s son was not a blessing when it came to making friends in Earnest.

  The town owed a lot to Sanchez Trucking. Only the school district had more employees, and drivers boosted the economy by renting or buying homes here. But Little League sponsorships and donations to charitable causes couldn’t erase memories, and Gil hadn’t had the time or inclination to try to win their hearts or change their minds.

  Until now. He sighed moodily. “I just hope they aren’t holding my actions against him.”

  “There aren’t near as many people who think you’re an actual spawn of the devil these days.” Delon laced his fingers over his belt buckle and studied the bridge he made of his thumbs. “Did you warn him about the other rumors?”

  “All the money we supposedly rake in smuggling drugs? Yeah, as soon as it got back to me.” By way of the oldest Jacobs daughter, Lily, who heard all the dirt thanks to being a local minister’s wife.

  Delon growled his contempt. “Our trucks never cross the border, and we have zero connections in Mexico.”

  Definitely not through their dad. The Sanchez name was courtesy of a great-grandfather who’d taken it from his foster parents and died soon after passing it along to a single son, who’d done a disappearing act before little Merle could eat solid food. Merle had left his unhappy childhood home immediately after high school and lost touch with his mother and her kin. Then he’d created two sons who were Native by blood, assumed Latino, and raised in a lily-white town. No confusion there.

  Gil picked up a pen and spun it between his fingers. “You haven’t heard the latest. Since the cartels are moving into the reservations, the word is we’re working with our Navajo relations to pick up shipments there and deliver them all over the country. And of course I have my former dealers.”

  “Who all had medical licenses. I doubt any of them were peddling heroin out the back door of their offices.”

  “You didn’t meet some of these people.” Gil curled his lip, recalling how freely some of those doctors had dispensed narcotics. “They weren’t exactly the cream of the health-care crop.”

  And they were in four different states. Handy, living in the Panhandle where he could pop over to Oklahoma, Colorado, or New Mexico, playing the part of the chronic-pain patient in search of relief—and making it less likely that a pharmacy or medical office would catch the multiple prescriptions.

  Even when he was a complete disaster, he’d been too smart for his own good.

  Delon made a rude gesture in the general direction of town. “Well, screw ’em if they can’t give credit where it’s due. Speaking of which…have you looked at that contract from Heartland Foods?”

  “Just a glance. I’ll dig into it this weekend.”

  “Great. I’ll tell them to expect to hear from you next week.” Delon clapped his hands together. “Damn. I can’t believe we’re gonna land that deal.”

  “You landed it.”

  Almost single-handedly. When they’d learned that the second-largest grocery supplier in the country was building a new distribution center in Amarillo and would need a dozen reefer trucks dedicated solely to their loads, Delon had used his world-champion clout to wrangle an introduction to the CEO, who was an avid rodeo fan. Then he’d flashed his charm and Sanchez Trucking’s stellar track record to beat out dozens of other contenders.

  Now it would be up to Gil to make good on all the promises Delon had made. And keep the rest of the fleet rolling. And figure out what was up with his kid.

  And somehow find the time to get Carma all to himself.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, Carma sat down at the table in the apartment and took a can of 7UP from her cousin—their family’s cure-all for anything that ailed a stomach. Carma was ambivalent about the chicken casserole and mashed potatoes, but fully expected that Bing would also be able to dish up plenty of information.

  First, though, Carma had to explain how she’d somehow become a full-time employee of Sanchez Trucking.

  “And the next thing I knew, I was saying yes,” she said, as she accepted the plate Bing held out to her.

  Bing rolled her eyes. “The Sanchez brothers tend to have that effect on women.”

  “You’re telling me.” But she’d been hard-pressed not to climb out of bed and plaster her ear to the floor vent when she’d heard the murmur of their voices after Delon had sent her upstairs. She didn’t need ESP to know they were talking about her. “They also pay extremely well and offered me free use of this apartment.”

  Which would be cash she could set aside in case the Patterson ranch wasn’t hiring. Their website welcomed volunteers, though, so she could probably hang out there as long as she could afford to be free labor.

  She certainly couldn’t advertise or monetize her special skills. There was no license for what she did, and even among Natives she wasn’t a recognized medicine woman, shaman, or healer—titles bestowed upon those who st
udied the ancient customs and followed age-old traditions. Carma was just…well, Carma. She had always been odd, but as she’d matured, that oddity had manifested itself in ways she was still learning to accept—and apply.

  “What’s this mean for you and Gil?” Bing said. “As far as I can tell he doesn’t even mix sex with his life, let alone his business.”

  “Well, it’s a little late now. We’ve already seen each other naked.”

  Bing’s elegant brows snapped together. “Since when?”

  “Last night.” Carma held up a hand when Bing’s jaw dropped. “He wouldn’t let me take a shower alone in case I keeled over again.”

  “So the two of you just…” Bing spread her hands in disbelief.

  “Showered. Then he fed me Jell-O and tucked me into bed.” Carma sorted out a carrot, pushing it to the side of her plate. “And he dried my hair.”

  Bing stared at her. “Gil Sanchez. The man who—if I heard correctly through that vent—just told one of his drivers he didn’t give a shit if he froze his dick off, he’d better get his ass out there and chain up his effing truck before he left Rapid City.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Huh. Well…I guess Gil does look after other people”—Bing winced at another volley of profanities—“in his own way. He practically raised himself and his brother. Merle was a very hands-off kind of parent.”

  “Still is if he’s gone fishing when they’re up to their necks and shorthanded.”

  Bing shrugged. “He turned sixty-five last month. Analise says he’s been in the process of retiring for the last few years.”

  That would explain why Gil had only seemed mildly annoyed by his dad’s absence. “What about their mother?”

  “Rochelle. She’s Navajo, from out in the back country south of Shiprock. Her dad had a major stroke and her mother couldn’t take care of him alone. Gil was in the first grade, and if she’d taken the boys with her, they would have had to go to boarding school.”

  Both of them grimaced. The modern versions were a major improvement on the original, grim institutions designed to indoctrinate the students into white culture—by force if necessary. But they were still institutions, not homes.