Chapter 11
At ten minutes to four on Thursday afternoon, the loudspeaker at the Earnest High School athletic field squawked to life, ordering athletes to report for the boys’ high jump, girls’ long jump, boys’ discus, and girls’ shot put.
Individual bodies emerged from the herds jogging, stretching, roughhousing, and lounging across the infield, and Gil was immediately surrounded by a mob of boys. Nearby, a posse of Earnest athletes settled onto the grass to cheer their teammates on.
One girl flashed a nervous smile in Quint’s direction. “Hey, Quint.”
“Hey, Kenzie.” He didn’t smile or make eye contact, just stood with his arms folded, looking more official than any of the coaches. None of the other kids attempted to make conversation. Was this how Quint always acted? Was he upset about being ineligible? Embarrassed by Gil’s presence? Maybe he was wondering why he’d ever wanted to live here.
Or he could be plotting to overthrow the government of some small, unstable Eastern European country. Damned if Gil would know either way. He put his fingers to his mouth for an earsplitting whistle.
“Listen up!” He held the clipboard with one hand while flattening the sheets ruffled by the stiff breeze, reading off the instructions he’d been given, finishing with, “Don’t forget to check out if you have to leave for a running event. You have five minutes to get back here after you’re done or you’ll be scratched. Now here’s the order.”
He barked out the names. Halfway down, he came to Sam Carruthers. So this was Quint’s newfound rival. The kid who flicked a hand in response had hair so blond it was nearly white and not an ounce of fat to hide the wiry muscle in his legs. He didn’t glance at Quint, who was posted on the other side of the huge foam landing pad, not glancing at anyone.
Gil finished roll call, grabbed one end of the bar, and signaled to Quint to hoist the other onto the stanchion. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
* * *
When the winners of both the boys’ and girls’ high jump were finally, blessedly declared, Gil walked a gauntlet of angry mutters and hostile glares to turn in his clipboard to the woman at the scorer’s hut.
She blinked in surprise. “Wow. That may be the first time in history the high jumpers were the first field event to finish.”
“I like to keep things moving.”
“So I’ve heard.” At Gil’s flat stare, she stuttered, “I mean, isn’t that what a trucking company does?”
“I guess so.”
She fiddled with the top paper on the clipboard. “The Childress coach wasn’t very happy about having his best jumper scratched.”
“I was just following the rules. They said five minutes.”
“Ah…well…most of our volunteers don’t really keep track of that.”
“I did.” And Gil was not used to giving a flying shit who he annoyed—but until now he’d never had to worry about stirring up trouble for his son.
“I suppose they do have to learn.” She offered a tentative smile. “You don’t remember me. Sharla Turner? I was three grades ahead of you.”
The name was familiar, but Gil drew a blank on the face. He recognized her as a townie, though, which explained why she’d made no impression on him. He’d preferred the girls he met at junior and high school rodeos, from towns far enough away that he didn’t have to play boyfriend during the week. When he’d hit the pro rodeo circuit, he’d discovered an infinite supply of women ready to party all night long in a different town every weekend, and he’d gone hog wild…until he’d met Krista.
He’d fallen in love the way he’d done everything else—too fast and too hard. She’d been right there with him, one crazy high to the next, until she’d announced she was pregnant and the party came crashing to a halt—and his motorcycle with it.
In the months that followed his wreck he’d removed himself from his family, his friends, and as much of reality as the pills and booze could erase, but now that Quint was here, he’d have to make more of an effort to be part of the community. He still wouldn’t have anything to do with women like Sharla Turner, though, who would forever be underfoot in a town this small.
And yet, there was Carma, making herself indispensable on only her second day in his office, and that seemed to suit him just fine.
Sharla’s smile was wilting, so he said, “Glad I could help. If you’re done with us, I’ll grab Quint and get back to work.”
“I hear he’s some kind of athlete.” She gave the smile one more boost. “Must take after his daddy.”
God help him if he did. Gil settled for a nod and made his getaway.
He was leaning against the hood of the Charger when Quint and Beni strolled out to the parking lot, a dark smudge in the crowd of otherwise pale-skinned parents, kids, and coaches swarming from the stadium. At twelve, Beni was the same height as Quint, with a heaviness to his bones that suggested he might grow up to be as big as Steve and Cole Jacobs, both well over six feet and built like Mack trucks. Even his mother, Violet, could look Gil square in the eye and possibly take him in a wrestling match.
Beni said something, Quint gave him a shove, and Beni shoved back, grinning. Gil had to tighten his arms over a sudden ache in his chest. Roll back the clock a couple of decades and that could’ve been him and Delon. Where there was one Sanchez brother, you were damn near guaranteed to find the other, with Delon usually trailing along begging Gil to ease up. Don’t spur so wild. Don’t drive so fast. Don’t tear through life like it was a race to see who could get to the end first.
And most of all, don’t ever slow down enough to feel anything but the rush.
He shook off that cheerful thought as Beni flashed him a cheeky grin. “Hey, Uncle Gil. Looked like you were having a great time out there.” Beni held up a smartphone. “I got videos in case Sam’s dad actually took a swing at you when you scratched him in the high jumping.”
“I’d already DQ’d the Childress kid for being late. I couldn’t play favorites.” Even knowing it would pile fuel on the fire. Quint hadn’t blinked, smiled, nothing, even when some of his teammates shouted boo.
“Coach is furious,” Quint said, seemingly more perturbed by the mosquito he swatted off his arm than his coach’s anger.
“I noticed.” Gil couldn’t help adding, “They never let that stuff slide at your meets in Oklahoma.”
Beni rolled his eyes. “Those people acted like they were training a bunch of future Olympians.”
“They were,” Quint said. And his prep school had a wall of fame to prove it.
“Sam’s usually not a jerk.” Beni frowned at Quint. “It would help if you didn’t stand there looking all superior and bored. They think you’re judging them.”
“I am.” Gil and Beni stared at him, sure it must be one of his oddball jokes, but he just shrugged. “In a town this small, you’re stuck with the same people forever. I want to find friends like Dad’s, or Hank’s buddy Korby, that I’ll still want to hang out with when I’m old.”
Jesus. Christ. What eighth grader thought that way? And then…
Wait a minute. Quint planned on staying in Earnest until he was as ancient as his dad? Gil wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or insulted.
“Hank isn’t old,” Beni said.
Okay. Insulted for the win. Gil glanced around but didn’t see Violet’s black Cadillac. Oh right. She was in Atlanta this week. Jacobs Livestock had decided to take on the pro bull-riding tour, so she and Joe and the best of their herd had been crisscrossing the country from New York City to Sacramento since January.
“You need a ride?” he asked Beni.
“Nah. I’m Tori’s problem until Grandpa and Grandma get home from their vacation.”
A trip to Brazil, where Iris was giddy over the tropical foliage and Steve was making the Jacobs breeding program known to the contractors who provided stock for the country’s grow
ing rodeo craze. Beni had been lobbying to enroll in an online program so he could travel, too, but Delon and Violet insisted there was more to school than the classwork, which occasionally left Beni to bond with his stepmother for a few days.
“There she is,” Beni said.
A silver SUV turned into the lot and rolled to a stop beside them. The window slid down and Delon’s wife gave them all a nod of greeting, still wearing her Panhandle Orthopedics and Sports Medicine polo shirt. She pushed her sunglasses into her caramel-brown hair and studied Gil with cool gray eyes.
“I hear you have a new receptionist,” she said, cutting straight to the point as usual.
“Temporarily.” Something he seemed to stress every time the subject came up. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t freaking out about Carma’s invasion of his little kingdom.
“Hank and Beni and I are gonna rope a few steers tonight, so I got burgers to grill,” Tori said.
“Is Grace working?” As an athletic trainer at Bluegrass High School, Hank’s girlfriend spent most of her evenings either at practices or sporting events.
Tori nodded. “Her junior varsity had a track meet in Canyon. Come to supper…and bring Carma.”
It was not a request.
“If she’s feeling up to socializing,” Gil hedged.
“I don’t think Carma’s gonna want to even smell a burger for a while,” Quint said.
“I’ll grab something else on the way home,” Tori said. “See you in about an hour?”
As if saying no was an option when she used that honey-dipped steel voice.
“I’m gonna go with them,” Quint said, and climbed in Tori’s car without waiting for a response.
Gil stayed put, watching Tori drive away.
God, he wanted a beer. The craving came out of nowhere, and instantly he could taste the cold, yeasty tingle across his tongue, feel it hitting his bloodstream in a river of golden bubbles. If he swung by the Kwicky Mart on the way home and grabbed a six-pack…
Christ. In the space of two thoughts he’d gone from a single drink to half a dozen. Even in his imagination, one was never enough. He slammed into the driver’s seat and gunned the Charger out of the nearly empty lot, spitting gravel and turning heads.
One more parental fail to add to his growing list.
* * *
Carma watched Gil turn into the Sanchez Trucking gates from where she was lounging on the outside landing of the apartment, using cushions from the couch as a makeshift chaise. After a day of staring at software training videos and trying to memorize unfamiliar acronyms—BOL, IFTA, ELD—even the wind felt wonderful.
The Charger glided to a stop below her and Gil stepped out, instantly disrupting the atmosphere. Frustration. Worry. Desire. His raw emotions washed over her like scalding water before he reined them in.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Bombarded. And still, as always, turned on. She suspected she could get hot for this man in the middle of a blizzard. But what she said was, “Stranded. Turns out replacing a Montana driver’s license when you’re stuck in Texas is no small feat. By the time my mom gathers up all the stuff they want, it might be quicker to fly home and do it myself—if I could get on a plane without a photo ID.”
“Are you in a big rush to get out of here?”
Was that a hint of a sulk, as if she’d offended him? She tossed her hair, smirking down at him. “I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
“Most of my receptionists don’t need much encouragement.” But he was slightly more relaxed as he propped an elbow on the open car door, looking like every girl’s bad-boy dream and dialing up Carma’s internal thermostat another few degrees. “Did you get a new phone yet?”
“I called the place in Dumas, but I want the same model as my old one, which is not the latest, greatest, and most expensive, which is all they have in stock. I have to wait for them to order it.” Almost the whole truth. The phone would actually be in tomorrow. She wasn’t confessing that the only guy who knew how to retrieve her old texts wouldn’t be back from vacation until next week. She tilted her head to verify that the car was unoccupied. “Did you forget someone at the track meet?”
More important, did this mean they had the rest of the evening to themselves?
“Quint went home with Beni. And unless you have an extremely good excuse to say no, the Princess has requested your presence.”
His dry tone put a damper on her lustful thoughts. “The…who?”
“Delon’s wife. I’m supposed to bring you to supper.”
Carma glanced down at her scruffy jeans and sweatshirt with a picture of the mountains and a Get High in Babb, Montana tagline. Not the outfit she would have chosen for her first encounter with Texas royalty.
And not an easy person to impress, by all accounts.
“Tori doesn’t give a shit what you’re wearing,” Gil said. “She just wants to get a look at the only woman who’s ever dared to follow me home.”
Carma’s face stung, but instead of flinching she gave him a hard stare. “Flying the asshole flag pretty high today.”
“Believe me, about two hundred people made that perfectly clear.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture she already knew meant he had a headache. “Consider it part of your job description to tell me so anytime you feel the need.”
“Count on it.”
He gave her a twisted smile that did foolish things to her pulse. “I could learn to count on you for a lot of things, Carmelita, but I don’t think that would end well for either one of us.”
And she should thank the stars that Gil knew it as well as she did.
“They’re gonna be roping after supper,” he said. “You’re dressed fine for hanging out in the arena. If you want to come.”
She was hardly going to turn down an opportunity to meet Tori. Plus there would be horses, ropes, and dirt. Where was the downside?
“Give me ten minutes,” she said.
“Whatever you need. I’ll be at the house when you’re ready.”
“The house?”
He gestured toward the back of the trucking yard. “Right back there.”
She got up, walked to the edge of the landing, and leaned out as far as she dared. It took a few seconds to register what she was seeing. Holy shit. That was Gil’s house? Carma had to blink twice. Tucked against the back fence of the Sanchez Trucking lot, hidden from sight by the shop, it looked like a movie set, labeled on the script as Respectable Suburban Home. The fence was actual white pickets, the paint powder-blue with crisp white trim, the lawn neatly clipped, with shade trees, and a basketball hoop above the two-car garage. There were even flowers spilling out of pots that lined the steps.
Carma sensed that he was waiting for her reaction and, perversely, chose not to give him one. “So this is why you can’t help wandering over to the office at all hours.”
“It’s not like I’d be sleeping anyway.”
“Are you naturally an insomniac?”
“I’ve always been a night owl. After my wreck…” He shrugged. “There isn’t a whole lot of difference between night and day when all you do is sleep, eat, and stare at screens. That’s when my internal clock got really screwed up.”
“And you can’t take anything for it.”
His head jerked in affirmation. “None of the good stuff. Melatonin doesn’t do anything for me. Same for relaxation exercises, deep breathing, all that crap. So I figure as long as I’m awake…”
He could turn those empty hours and untapped energy into the force that drove Sanchez Trucking. All the competitive drive that had made him a champion. There was something intrinsically cowboy about the way he cocked his hip and squinted up at her. He must’ve been incredibly hot in chaps, pearl-snap shirt, and a cowboy hat.
She couldn’t say for sure, since his career had ended before rodeo em
braced the Internet. The search she’d done had turned up nothing but a mention of his Rookie of the Year title. All the action shots on the office walls were of Delon—by Gil’s choice, she assumed. She had a vision of a pile of broken frames, shattered glass, and glossy paper, going up in flames. Truth, or the echo of a powerful impulse on his part?
She was tempted to ask, but that would kill the buzz that made every inch of her skin feel exquisitely oversensitized. It was a rare treat, this level of attraction, and made her want to stretch out the anticipation, savor these moments when her body quivered for his touch.
“I don’t suppose I’m invited in for a quickie?” she asked.
His gaze practically smoked when it traveled over her. “There is nothing quick about what I want to do when I finally get my hands on you.”
Everything inside her contracted, then released in a slow, hot whoosh. She let out an audible breath. “Well, let’s not rush into it, then. You only get one first time, you know.”
And this delicious torture would end when she actually touched and tasted. The desire might still be powerful, but it would never be quite the same again.
His eyes mirrored everything she was thinking. “It’ll be worth the wait.”
That was a promise…and Gil Sanchez was more than capable of making it come true.
Chapter 12
Supper at Tori’s was everything Gil had imagined—and worse.
When he and Carma arrived, the boys had already grabbed their burgers and gone to watch the Astros-Dodgers game in Beni’s room, since you could spit on the TV from the dining table shoved into one corner of Tori’s cramped living room. The primary selling points for the property had been the indoor arena and a relatively easy commute into Amarillo. Other than a few pieces of original art and the most treasured of Delon’s trophies, there was nothing impressive about their house.
It was definitely not designed for entertaining, as those house-hunting shows liked to say.
But Tori was a pro, playing the consummate hostess while conducting a ruthless interrogation. What the hell? She normally saved that routine for her father’s unfortunate dates. Tonight she’d served up grilled snapper with a side of endless questions about Carma’s family, their ranch, life in Montana, the trick roping, her work in the movies, and other jobs she’d held.
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