“Look!” Amelia said, stopping abruptly to dismiss him—too abruptly for the tour group behind her. “I didn’t come all this way so you could insult my hairdresser.” She wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t insulted her figure while he was at it. “Thank you for meeting me. I can handle it from here.”
Amelia left him standing there, blending into the flow of pedestrian traffic that surged through the busy airport.
“Amelia, wait! You don’t know the plan.”
“Whose plan? Yours and Bobby’s? No, thank you,” she said around a tall woman in orthopedic shoes who couldn’t get by.
“Where are you going? Amelia!”
“To the hospital,” she threw back at him.
“I told you, Bobby’s not there,” Mac said, his voice much closer.
“I’m going to talk to his doctor.”
“His doctor’s in Chimayo too. Amelia, wait,” Mac said, catching her by the arm. She could feel every one of his fingers, warm and strong and firm, through the sleeve of her linen jacket. He was too close to her, and he was looking at her too hard. She had always liked Houston McDade, but he was violating her personal space, and she wanted him out of it. She kept right on walking.
“Amelia,” he said with maddening patience, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil he was causing. “You can find a doctor to talk to at the hospital, but he’s not going to be the one who knows anything about Bobby.”
“Then you tell me,” she said, pulling her arm free and stopping abruptly a second time.
“Lady, could you give a signal?” a rotund man wearing a flowered shirt and smoking a cigar asked when he ran into her again. Amelia had to unhook her shoulder tote from his garment bag, and she moved aside to let him through.
“Amelia,” Mac said in exasperation, “why don’t I remember you being this hard-headed?”
“I’m not hard-headed. I simply want you to tell me why my brother is in a VA hospital.”
“And I told you I have to let him explain it.”
“And you know good and well he won’t. He’ll drag out that charming grin of his and he’ll try to fast-talk me onto the next flight out of here and I won’t know any more than I do right now. I think the only reason he’s out here is because he knows I hate to fly and he thought I wouldn’t come. But I did come, and if you don’t choose to tell me, then I’ll find someone who will.” Amelia finished her speech and stood staring into Mac’s hazel eyes. Such thick eyelashes …
She gave a short sigh and was off walking again, heading for the outside and a line of waiting taxis. She had to blink hard against the bright sunlight and against the tears that threatened to come. She hadn’t slept, and she needed to know about Bobby.
“Amelia!” Mac said, catching her arm again. “Do you want to see Bobby or don’t you?”
“Yes, I want to see him! But I’m not going to play any more of these games!” She tried to walk on, but he blocked the way, his hands on her shoulders.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he insisted, his fingers clamping down hard to keep her still. “Now, something’s wrong here. You and I are old friends. You held out your hand a minute ago, and you said ‘Mac.’ And it’s been downhill ever since. Now, what is the problem here?”
Amelia sighed in mock despair, dropping her head and then looking up at him. His face registered concern. She could handle anything but that.
“This is the problem, Mr. McDade,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “You won’t take your hands off me and get out of my way so I can be about my business.” She tried to get free again.
“Will you wait?” Mac yelled, losing his temper. “Dam-mitall, Amelia, let me tell you at least! We’re having a big get-together at our place in Chimayo. Bobby and half the hospital are there. So if you want to see him, you’ve got to go there.” He gave her shoulders a little squeeze to make sure he had her attention. “This is the plan. The Chevez Brothers are being good enough to give us a ride to another airport—that is, if you’re not too uptown to ride in the back of a pickup truck. Then I’m going to fly us to Chimayo—”
“And that’s Bobby’s idea, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“The flying business is Bobby’s idea,” she insisted.
Mac was frowning, obviously trying to think of a way out. “All right,” he said evasively, shrugging his broad shoulders. “You can say it was his idea. You’ll get to Chimayo quicker—”
“Bull!” Amelia announced, turning a few heads. “He knows good and well I’ve never flown in a small plane—”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t—”
“I’m a white-knuckle flyer, Mac,” she explained with thinly veiled impatience.
“What do you do? Throw up?” He was grinning.
“No!” Amelia said indignantly.
“Then what are you worried about, for godsake?”
“I’m worried you’ll have a heart attack and I’ll have to fly the damned thing!”
Mac laughed out loud, his hands squeezing her shoulders again. He was looking directly into her eyes—he kept staring at her and grinning—while she tried to get away. He wouldn’t let her, his hands gently beginning to knead her stubborn shoulders. “Did I tell you how glad I am to see you again?” he asked.
“No,” she said impatiently, holding herself rigid.
His grin went to a little, crooked half-smile, his eyes filled with amusement. “I am, Amelia—boy hair cut and all.” And he kept looking into her eyes. “You want to go another ten rounds out here in front of the Lord and everybody, or do you want to help me find the Chevez brothers?”
Amelia was aware there were onlookers, just as she was aware of the deep vibration of his raspy voice and aware of the pressure of his strong hands on her shoulders. There were smile lines around his eyes. She hadn’t remembered his smiling that much when he was in the hospital with Bobby.
“Amelia?” he said, his voice firm but quiet. He wasn’t giving an inch, and neither was she.
“I’m… sorry,” he offered with a small, offhand shrug, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I’m sorry I said what I did about your hair.”
Amelia looked at him closely, suspiciously, her eyes scanning his deeply tanned face. “You are not,” she advised him coldly. “You’re trying to ‘handle’ me. And let me tell you one thing: I hate being handled!”
He laughed out loud again, giving her a quick, hard hug. It had been so long since anyone hugged her, and she stood there with the ridiculous notion that she might cry as her nostrils filled with the male scent of him.
“You’re still you, Amelia,” he told her, sounding pleased. “I was afraid you’d changed.”
Amelia pushed herself abruptly out of his arms. “You’re wrong about that, McDade. I’m a lot smarter than I used to be.”
“Now, Amelia, don’t go getting all mad again,” he said, trying to hang on to her. “I’m just trying to help.”
“If you were helping,” she informed him, “I wouldn’t be mad.”
He looked at her for a moment. “You know, Amelia, there’s a lot of sense to that. Let me put this another way. How about you helping me then? Will you please let me go ahead and take you to your brother? I got cows in an arroyo.” He was smiling into her eyes, and he had this big—dumb—cowboy hat shoved toward the back of his head.
“Is that bad?” she asked, returning his gaze if it killed her.
“It’s going to rain,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Now, are you going to help me out here or not? See, I already know what a kindhearted woman you are, so if you could just hop into the back of a pickup with me, well, I just can’t tell you how happy that would make me.” He raised both eyebrows hopefully. “Come on, Amelia. What do you say?”
“You’re pretty clever, aren’t you?” Amelia said. “I don’t have the money to throw away on renting a car or hanging around here until Bobby shows up, and if I don’t get into the back of a pickup truck, I’m going to look like some kin
d of transportation snob, particularly since beggars can’t be choosers. Isn’t that about the size of it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mac said, looking immensely pleased with himself. “Now can we go look for the Chevez brothers?”
Amelia hesitated, then sighed. “Yes,” she said grudgingly.
“Well, thank the Lord,” Mac said in relief, and she couldn’t keep from smiling. “Amelia, you look that way, and I’ll look this way.”
“Are you going to tell me what I’m looking for?” she asked as he took her suitcase.
“Oh, you’ll know it,” Mac assured her.
“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Hurry, will you?” he said, taking her arm again to escort her across the traffic lanes to a parking lot.
“These aren’t hurrying shoes,” she said, stumbling a bit to keep up. Apparently, having been in a body cast had left him none the worse for wear.
“What did you wear those things for?” he wanted to know, leaning back to look at her feet.
“Because I thought I was going to ride in a taxi from the International Airport to the VA Medical Center and back again, that’s why. I—hadn’t planned this—side trip—”
“You’ll like it, though. I can’t wait for you to see Chimayo. And Santa Fe. You think Tennessee is something—”
“Wait, Mac, wait,” she said, making him stop. “I’m—out of—breath. I thought I was—in better shape—than this—”
“It’s the altitude,” he said, seemingly unconcerned. “It’s about five thousand feet. You’re not used to it. It’s about seven thousand feet around Santa Fe and Chimayo. It’ll probably be worse for you there for a while.”
“Oh, fine,” she said, meaning anything but that. She glanced up at him. He was scanning the parking lot while she tried to breathe. Amelia turned her head at the blare of car horns, seeing a no-color pickup truck bearing down on them. It had been rolled—several times, from the looks of it—and she could see what Bobby called “whiskey dents” everywhere. And if front bumpers resembled human lips, this one had been knocked into a snarl.
“Now, remember,” Mac whispered, “they’re doing us a favor. I want you to act like it.”
Amelia’s temper flared. She didn’t need a cowboy who looked as if he were on his way to audition for Flashdance to tell her how to behave. She had been brought up to be polite and to tell the truth—in that order—and she was about to tell him so.
“Later!” he hissed at her. “Be mad at me later!”
She managed a smile and three nods through the introductions to the Chevez brothers—Marty, Josh, and Gene, one tall and two short, all wearing cowboy hats—but Mac didn’t give her time to tell the truth. Car horns still honked behind the truck, and an airport security person was headed in their direction.
“Amelia, will you get in!” Mac yelled, tossing her suitcase and her shoulder tote into the back of the truck. She backed away, realizing she was next.
“I can’t!” she yelled back at him. Her skirt was too narrow—front pleat or no front pleat—to let her climb over the side.
“You’ve probably never even been in the back of a pickup,” he grumbled, scooping her up bodily and thrusting her over the side.
“I have too!” she protested, wondering even as she said it why it was important to her that he believe it.
“You’re not wearing the right clothes,” he grumbled further while the Chevez brothers looked on with interest.
“I’ve already explained mat!” she said behind her teeth, not wanting to make any insulting remarks about the truck. There was no accounting for men’s tastes in their vehicles. Her father had had a truck almost exactly like this one.
“And don’t bother the dog,” Mac said under his breath.
“I’m not going to bother the dog!” she hissed back at him, then realized that there wasn’t one. The cowboy was having his little joke on the eastern dude, and he chuckled to himself. He was just too cute for words, grinning and climbing into the truck with her, trying not to drag his dusty boots over her white skirt. He pounded on the cab hard as a signal to go, looking over at her as if he expected some comment.
“I hate your hat,” she obliged him because it was the only thing she could think of to say while she was holding on for dear life. They were sitting on a wooden toolbox near the cab, and it really wasn’t wide enough for both of them. She could feel the warm press of his thigh all along hers, and she kept sliding into him as the truck made its turns because she had no adequate handholds to keep her steady.
He leaned back to study her intensely. “I hate your haircut,” he countered pleasantly, still enjoying himself.
Amelia raised both eyebrows. “And what was that pretty little apology I heard a few minutes ago?”
“I said I was sorry I said anything,” he presented like a man showing a royal flush. “I didn’t say at any time that I liked it.”
He was chuckling again, and she glared at him, eyes narrowed. Mac reached up to ruffle her already windblown hair, and Amelia put her hand up to stop him, their fingers touching for a moment, her glare fading in the wake of something she saw in his clear hazel eyes. She was so aware of him suddenly that she could hardly sit still. She made herself look past him, squinting in the bright sunlight. She had never been in a place where the sky was so… so overwhelming. She didn’t know that she’d ever been with a man so overwhelming either, and this penchant he had for treating her like an already inept female who had subsequently been dropped on her head was beginning to get on her nerves.
Man-starved, Amelia told herself. That’s why she’d let herself be talked into this. That’s why she was putting up with this opinionated cow-chaser. He had no business telling her she couldn’t go to the hospital—or that she wasn’t to offend the Chevezes. She had never offended anyone in her life—well, she had tried with Kerry, but Kerry Dawn had proved too thick-headed or thick-skinned or both, just like a nearby cowboy who came immediately to mind. Amelia had asked him just to go away and leave her alone, but no, he couldn’t do that. He had cows in his arroyo—whatever that meant—and here she was in the back of a pickup truck with her hair blowing all over and on her way to God-only-knows-where with not one but four total strangers.
“See those mountains over there?” Mac asked abruptly.
Amelia gave a disinterested glance. “What about them?” The truth of it was that on the plane she’d marveled at the miles of open, flat land that abruptly ran into that wall of mountain. There was nothing here like the green rolling hills of Tennessee.
“Sandia Crest,” he explained to her. “I’ll take you there sometime.”
“I won’t be here that long,” she assured him, looking away from his intense regard to the passing scenery—what didn’t go by in a blur. They were on the Pan American Freeway, and driving rule number one was surely “Kill or be killed.” She glanced at Mac. He apparently felt the look and grinned in her direction. She made sure not to return the grin, wondering idly if he had several weeks’ growth of hair on his face because he just hadn’t shaved or because he was growing a brand-new hippie-type beard.
They took the exit to Central Avenue.
“Old Town!” he yelled at her to get her attention as they passed a sign pointing out the direction to Old Town, and then, “Rio Grande!” when they crossed a shallow river.
“Thank you,” she said politely over the wind and the traffic noise, but she was here to see her brother. She was not here as a tourist.
The truck made a slow right turn.
Oh, Lord, Amelia thought with a sinking feeling as she read yet another sign. They were indeed going to an airport. The remainder of the trip took longer than she expected—not necessarily a good thing. The closer they came to the airport, the more she felt the rise of raw panic. She was going to disgrace herself, and she knew it. Surely there must be some inexpensive way to see Bobby and still not have to get involved with airplanes.
“Do you speak Spanish?” Mac a
sked suddenly when they were almost there, and his question seemed more a worry than an inquiry into her linguistic abilities. Amelia tried not to smile, suspecting the reason for the question. She didn’t speak Spanish, but she did understand appreciative male when she heard it, and she’d heard it in association with the amount of thigh she’d shown trying to get into the back of the truck.
“No,” she answered, immediately noting Mac’s look of relief. “Why?” she couldn’t resist asking.
“Just wondered,” he said evasively, looking over the top of her head.
“No, why?” she persisted, knowing she was on to something.
“I was just wondering,” Mac insisted. And he still wouldn’t look at her.
“Why? What did Marty Chevez say?”
He actually blushed. Amelia had no idea men did that anymore. She kept staring at him with an amused grin, knowing he was uncomfortable and showing him no mercy.
“You’re having a real good time with me, aren’t you?” he complained, and her smile broadened. He managed a soft smile of his own, and he finally looked at her. “One of these days, Amelia,” he said, staring into her eyes, “I’m going to tell you—show you—what he said.” His eyes slid downward to the rise of her breasts, and she could feel her own face grow hot. He had done nothing except look, but the intensity of it made her feel as if he’d put his rough hands on her, his mouth—
You had better watch it, she chided herself. This was not simply social banter or auld lang syne. This was the ritual that could precede exactly what she intended to avoid. She was attracted to Houston McDade—probably always had been—and she had better take care.
The truck stopped near a cement-block building surrounded by an array of small planes, and Mac apparently forgot what he’d just told her about being civil to the Chevez brothers, refusing to wait until she’d said thank you and grabbing her up mid-sentence to lift her over the side of the truck well before she was ready to be lifted.
Such Rough Splendor Page 3
