Texas Pride

by Barbara Mccauley

  He had good reason to be angry, he told himself. Everything that could have gone wrong since the week started had gone wrong. The lumber company lost a shipping order of studs that Dylan needed three days ago, there was an electrical short somewhere in the church wiring that had yet to be found, and the brand-new plumbing had mysteriously backed up. Everything was taking longer than it should and costing more.

  And now his thumb hurt like hell.

  He’d been thinking about Jessica when the hammer had slipped. But then, it was rare he wasn’t thinking about Jessica. Not just that incredible night they’d spent together, but that provocative manner she’d left him in the morning. If she’d intended revenge, it had certainly worked. Not a minute went by that he didn’t think about her. Her scent still lingered on his pillow, in his room, even on the shirt she’d so casually shrugged out of as she’d walked out. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since.

  He was glad he hit his thumb. It was a hell of a lot easier to deal with an aching thumb than the other part of his anatomy that was in pain.

  But what really got him, he thought as he ground his back teeth, was her casual dismissal of that night. She’d never mentioned it once and had acted as if nothing at all had happened. They still had their meals together, worked together. They’d even ridden into town together to pick up some supplies.

  She was making him crazy.

  Just for good measure he kicked his toolbox again.

  Temporarily appeased, he let out a long breath and glanced around the church. It was almost finished. They would install the windows today and put a final coat of paint on the walls. Then all he had to do was find that damn short in the wiring and they were done here. He knew how much Jessica wanted the church ready for Christmas, and he was determined it would be.

  He watched as Dean sneaked in the back door of the church. He had on a cowboy hat and kept his head down as he took over for one of the other kids nailing frames. Last week he’d been the most eager and experienced worker on the crew; Dylan had even put him in charge. But he hadn’t shown up yesterday, or called, and now he was late.

  Even seventeen-year-olds needed to find out what the real workplace was like, Dylan thought as he headed for the young man. If the kid couldn’t cut it, then he’d better hit the road.

  “Have a hard time getting yourself out of bed the past couple of days?” Arms folded, Dylan stood behind the latecomer.

  “Sorry,” Dean muttered, but didn’t turn around.

  “A job is a responsibility. If you aren’t here, we all have to work harder.” Dylan knew he was preaching, the same way his bosses had preached at him when he’d done something stupid.

  “I said I was sorry.” Dean’s shoulders were stiff as he swung the hammer.

  Dylan frowned. Dean had always been cool, but never rude. Dylan put a hand on his arm. “Look, Dean—”

  The kid swung around then, his mouth tight as he raised the hammer. “Don’t touch me.”

  Dylan stared at the young man and froze. His face was black-and-blue, one eye nearly swollen shut. “Good Lord, what happened?”

  Dean lowered his gaze and the hammer at the same time. His shoulders slumped. “Nothing.”

  When Dylan touched his shoulder, Dean jerked away, but Dylan wouldn’t be put off. He nodded to the back door. “Let’s go.”

  Resigned to his fate, Dean trudged outside, Dylan behind him. “Have you seen a doctor?” he asked.

  Dean shook his head. “I haven’t got money for that.”

  “What about your parents?”

  A dry laugh caught in Dean’s throat. “My mom’s been dead for three years. My dad only has money for booze.”

  A sick feeling twisted Dylan’s gut. “And this is what happens when he has too much of that?”

  The teenager shrugged. “It don’t matter ‘bout me. I could leave. But I got a kid brother who’s gonna get it next if I can’t get the money to get us both out of there.” Dean looked down at the ground. “Don’t fire me,” he said. “Please.”

  White-hot anger filled Dylan, a furious rage that any man could do this to his own child, or to any child. He’d like to pay the man a call, let the coward face someone who could defend himself. “Who the hell said anything about firing you? You’ve got the most experience of the crew, and I need every man I have.”

  Relief eased Dean’s shoulders. “I’ll stay late tonight to make up time. My brother’s with a neighbor while school’s out.”

  “Tomorrow. Right now I want you to get back into town and see the doctor. Have the bill sent here in my name. We have a medical account that’ll cover it, plus any time lost at work. If you can, be here in the morning.”

  Dean nodded and started to leave. Then he turned back and stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Dylan,” he said quietly. “You’re okay.”

  Surprised at the swelling he felt in his chest, Dylan shook the young man’s hand. “Now get out of here. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Dean grinned, then drove off in his battered pickup. Dylan stared after the truck until all he saw was dust. When he turned, Jessica stood at the back door of the church, watching him intently.

  “Since when do we have a medical or time-lost account?” she asked, lifting one brow.

  “Take it out of my pay.”

  “Better watch out, Dylan,” she said with a smile. “I think ‘do-gooder’ just crept onto your application. Before you know it, ‘volunteer’ will be right next to it.”

  He frowned at her.

  Would she ever figure this man out? Jessica wondered, trying to deal with the emotions skittering through her at the moment. She’d spent the past four days convincing herself he was a complete cad and she was glad nothing had developed from their making love.

  Then she had to witness that one brief exchange between him and Dean. He hadn’t embarrassed the teenager. He’d treated the young man with respect and kindness. A lot of men would have backed away, closed their eyes and their minds. He hadn’t.

  And the wall she’d so carefully built came tumbling down.

  Damn you, Dylan Grant!

  He moved toward her and gestured in the direction Dean had left. “How long has that been going on?”

  “Mostly since his mother died. I was in Dallas working in social services at the time, but I understand his dad started drinking heavily, and there was no one to take his anger out on except Dean. So far he hasn’t hit Troy, Dean’s nine-year-old brother, but it’s just a matter of time.”

  “A matter of time?” Dylan stared at her in disbelief. “Why the hell hasn’t anyone put the bastard away?”

  She sighed heavily. “Dean would deny it if it went to court. It might be hard to believe, but he still loves his dad. He understands that’s his father’s way of dealing with his grief.”

  “By hitting his own kid?”

  “I’ve seen worse.” She stared blankly past him. “Every one of these kids here, and the rest in town, has his, or her, own story. If I can help even one of them, then every penny spent here on Makeshift—” she glanced down at his hand and smiled “—and every smashed thumb is worth it.”

  Dylan felt as if he’d lived his entire life in a closed-up house, and suddenly, for the first time, all the windows and doors were thrown open. He understood now why she wanted to help these kids. Give them a chance no one else had. “What can I do?”

  Her gaze flicked to his. “You mean help?”

  Why did she have to look so damn surprised? he thought irritably. “Yes.”

  “You just did,” she said quietly. “You listened to Dean, but you made no judgment, gave no lecture. He’ll trust you now. There’s nothing more important than that.”

  Trust. The word stuck like a rock in Dylan’s throat. When had all this gotten so complicated? If the road to hell was truly paved with good intentions, he was well on his way.

  He’d had enough of this. He was done lying.

  Somewhere, at the other end of town, Dylan heard Hannibal barking i
nsistently, but he ignored the dog. He took Jessica by the arm and dragged her away from the back door of the church where anyone else might hear. “We need to talk,” he said tersely.

  Brow furrowed, she stared at him. He hadn’t a clue what to say. “Jessica—”

  She lifted a hand to cut him off, turning her head as she listened to Hannibal’s bark. Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “Dylan,” she said slowly, fearfully. “Something’s wrong.”

  Something was wrong, he realized. Hannibal’s bark demanded attention.

  “Oh, my God! Dylan!” She looked over his shoulder. “No!”

  He spun around, and his heart jumped into his throat.

  Smoke billowed from the saloon.

  “Fire!” he screamed to the crew. He was already running for the saloon with Jessica at his heels as the kids spilled out of the church. “Get the extinguishers,” he yelled over his shoulder.

  Jessica’s mind raced, and she felt as if she was moving in slow motion. Thick black smoke poured from the saloon’s double swinging doors. Hannibal was backing away from them, barking at the billowing cloud as if it were a living creature.

  It was her greatest fear. An uncontrolled fire could destroy Makeshift in minutes. In his blueprints, Dylan had included a complete system of alarms and sprinklers, but there’d been no time yet to install them. As a precaution, though, every building had at least two extinguishers.

  She couldn’t lose it all now, not when she was so close. She started to run into the saloon, but a pair of strong arms grabbed her roughly and hauled her back.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Dylan yelled.

  “I’ve got to get in there,” she yelled back, trying to pull away from him. Smoke curled around them, burning her eyes, and the sound of flames crackled from inside the building.

  He held her tightly. “The hell you do.”

  Larry and Pete ran up, carrying extinguishers. She stumbled backward as Dylan let go of her and grabbed one of the cans. “Don’t come in unless I call for you,” he said to the two young men, then gestured at Jessica. “And if she takes one step closer, lock her in the jailhouse.”

  They nodded, then looked at her apologetically.

  Furious, she watched helplessly as Dylan drew a deep breath and dove through the black cloud. She heard the squall of the extinguisher and the heavy stomp of boots. The smoke intensified.

  The rest of the crew showed up, all of them carrying extinguishers they’d gathered from other buildings. They stood in a line, quietly watching, waiting for a sign from Dylan. Even Hannibal had stopped barking and sat watching, his head tilted as he stared into the saloon.

  Jessica’s fear turned to panic.

  “Dylan!”

  No answer. She started to move toward the doors, but the boys grabbed her. “Dylan!”

  She struggled, calling his name. The fire, and what it might do to Makeshift, no longer mattered to her. Dylan was all that mattered. She twisted sharply away from her captors, catching them off guard, then ran straight through the doors and smack into Dylan’s wide chest. His arms came around her. Coughing, he lifted her off the ground and dragged her back outside into the middle of the street.

  “Dylan!” She pressed her cheek against his chest. “Thank God.”

  “I thought I told you to stay outside,” he said hoarsely, gasping as he drew in air.

  “You have a lot to learn about me, Dylan Grant, if you think I can be bossed around so easily.” She stepped back and ran her hands over his arms, checking him for burns. Soot smeared his face and clothes, and the smell of smoke clung to him. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded. “I caught it before any serious flames could get started. A few more minutes, though, and the place would’ve gone up like dry kindling.”

  Hannibal nudged his way between them, licking Dylan’s hand. Jessica knelt down and hugged the dog. “Thank you, boy. You and Dylan saved the town.” She looked up at the others. “You were all terrific. If you hadn’t moved so fast, we could have lost Makeshift.”

  They all grinned, then shifted modestly. “You know what caused it?” Pete asked.

  Dylan shook his head. “Not yet. Once the smoke clears, I’ll check it out. You can all get back to work now. I’ll take care of things here.”

  Excitement over, the boys shuffled back to the church. Jessica’s heart was still pounding hard as she faced Dylan again. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him close, but the tight expression she saw on his face stopped her. She slipped her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, instead. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “What were you thinking?” he said tightly. “A roof could’ve collapsed. The smoke could’ve gotten you. Dammit,” he said, his voice softening, “you could’ve been hurt.”

  Surprised by the concern in his voice, Jessica went still. She felt the heavy thud of her heart as she lifted her gaze to his. “I wasn’t hurt.”

  “Maybe not this time,” he said, his eyes searching her face.

  “What do you mean, not this time?”

  “I mean—” his lips thinned and he stepped closer “—this was no accident.”

  * * *

  She couldn’t sleep. She heard the steady tick of her bedside clock, Hannibal’s deep breathing, the persistent creaking common to all old buildings.

  The sounds were magnified tonight, as was her awareness of the man sleeping in the room next to hers. She couldn’t erase the image of him running into the smoke, the seconds that felt like hours when he hadn’t come back out. Her heart still slammed in her chest every time she thought of what might have happened if the fire had been more serious.

  This was no accident.

  Dylan’s words still pounded in her brain. The thought of someone intentionally starting a fire was inconceivable. She couldn’t believe it. She refused to believe it.

  With a heavy sigh, she slipped out of bed, tugged on her robe, then quietly made her way down the stairs. She could have used a flashlight or turned on one of the lights Dylan had installed in the hallway, but she preferred the darkness. Even as a child she’d never been afraid of the dark. She’d always found a comfort in the quiet blanket of night. That was when she could see the stars, and here in Makeshift, there were millions of them.

  She moved silently into the kitchen, closing the door behind her as she fumbled for the light.

  A hand reached out and grabbed her, then threw her against the wall.

  Nine

  “Dylan!”

  Heart pounding, Jessica realized it was Dylan who held her securely against the wall. She felt his hard body press against hers, heard the sound of his rapid breathing, then a muttered curse as he loosened his grip. Still, he did not release her completely, and she let her body slump.

  “You scared me to death!” she said, breathless.

  “What are you doing sneaking around in the dark?” he asked.

  He gripped her wrists more tightly, pinning her to the wall. The coarse texture of his hands on her skin sent shivers up her spine.

  Either one of them could have pulled away and turned on a light. They didn’t. They stood there, torso to torso, his face inches from hers.

  She couldn’t see him in the blackness, but she’d never been more aware of a man in her life. The darkness did that, she thought dimly. Changed a person’s focus. In the darkness there was nothing but feelings, a honing of the senses. Her pulse raced, her skin tightened. His breath was like a warm feather skimming her neck, and she caught the faint scent of whiskey.

  “Having a little midnight nip?” She forced a light tone into her voice. She felt more than saw his answering smile. She held her breath as he moved closer, bringing his lips a whisper from hers.

  “A little nip never hurt anyone,” he murmured.

  Anticipation shimmered through her as his mouth hovered close. With a will of their own, her lips parted and her eyes slowly closed.

  Dylan felt Jessica’s body soften against his, felt the rise a
nd fall of her breasts. A hunger consumed him that neither food nor drink could ever quench. Only she could. When he actually considered pressing his lips to hers, Dylan knew he’d had too much to drink. Or perhaps too little.

  He released her slowly, then flicked on the light. They both blinked.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, stepping away and shoving a hand through his hair. “I’m a little edgy tonight.”

  She pulled her robe tightly around her. “Because of today?”

  Because of today. Because of her. Because she could have been hurt in the fire and the thought terrified him. That was what had driven him down here. His fear. That she might yet be hurt. If not by someone else, then most certainly by him.

  “Those oil-soaked rags didn’t get in that saloon by accident, Jessica.” He eased down into a chair at the table where a shot glass sat beside a whiskey bottle.

  “They could’ve been there a long time.” She took the chair beside him. “Maybe the weather or the humidity set them off. Or maybe an animal dragged them in to set up a nest.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Dylan, none of my kids would’ve done anything like that. There has to be another explanation.”

  “We already went over all this at dinner. And I never said the kids did it.”

  She still didn’t want to believe it. “So who, then?”

  “If I knew, I sure as hell wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d have my fist in someone’s face.”

  He refilled the shot glass and held it out to her. Their fingers touched as she took the drink from him.

  “My mother used to make me hot chocolate with little marshmallows when I couldn’t sleep.” She stared at the glass.

  “Somehow,” he drawled, “I can’t quite picture marshmallows in whiskey, but I’ll try to rustle some up for you if it helps.”

  She looked at him, and the crooked grin on his face had her smiling. “Maybe next time.”

  Somehow she knew there wouldn’t be very many next times with Dylan. He’d made it clear he wasn’t a man who stayed put.