Wildcatter's Woman

by Janet Dailey

  It hurt. Even after all this time, she was still sensitive to his barbed remarks. “I had forgotten how rude and insulting you can be,” Vanessa declared with a traitorous quiver to her chin. “I don’t know why I bothered to come all the way out here.”

  Bending slightly at the waist, Race leaned both hands on the desktop, as if still intent on the well log. “I’ll take it from here, Jeb.” The hardness of steel ran beneath the casual tone that dismissed the second man.

  As he moved away from the desk, Jeb Bannon downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp and threw Vanessa a flickering glance. The air inside the trailer was thick with hostility. She could feel it pressing in around her as the second man left his cup by the coffee urn and walked out the door.

  After he was gone, Race remained in the same position. Vanessa had a slim view of his craggy profile, but mostly her view was restricted to his back. The heat of a Louisiana afternoon had plastered the blue chambray shirt to his muscled skin, making her conscious of the tapering width of his shoulders.

  “Will you look at me?” Vanessa demanded. “I don’t like talking to people’s backs.”

  She watched the rippling interplay of muscle and sinew as Race slowly straightened and turned at right angles to face her. His hard, flat gaze was unnerving. It was like coaxing a tiger close to the bars of its cage for a better look, then not feeling safe.

  “Make it quick. I happen to be busy,” Race snapped with a bored and impatient expression.

  In defense, Vanessa resorted to sarcasm. “I know. You were so busy you couldn’t take three minutes to return my call.”

  There was a curling lift of his mouth. “That’s right,” he agreed. “I had better things to do with my time than listen to you bitch because you haven’t received your alimony check for three months. When I get the money, you’ll be paid, although, judging by that shiny Porsche parked outside and”—his raking glance swept her from head to toe with insulting thoroughness—“the way you’re dressed, you don’t appear to be suffering any hardship.”

  The anger she’d been fighting so hard to contain bubbled over. “I’m glad you noticed that I don’t have to depend on you to support me! If I had to rely on you, I wouldn’t even have a roof over my head!” It was a deliberately cutting reminder that his financial gambles had cost them their home. A leaping fire blazed in his dark eyes as his jaw worked convulsively in anger. Shaken by the sensation that he was looming closer, when he hadn’t even moved, Vanessa took a step backward and came up against the trailer wall.

  “I could always count on your understanding, couldn’t I?” Race jeered with contempt. “Times got a little rough, and you got going, taking everything that was left with you, and demanding alimony besides.”

  “You owed me that much.” Her angry voice wavered with the strain of keeping its volume down, so this wouldn’t turn into another one of their shouting matches. “And I certainly put the money to better use than you would have. You’d have poured it into another dry hole in the ground and lost it all.”

  In one step Race eliminated the small space that separated them. Vanessa flattened herself against the wall in sudden alarm. She was trapped, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of her while he towered inches from her. Taut rage marked his stillness as he glared down on her. She could feel the heat of his body down her whole length.

  An awareness of his potent masculinity flooded through her. Race Cantrell was all man, a fact she had ignored in her anger. But having him this close to her again, it was brought sharply home. She couldn’t draw a breath without drinking in his musky scent, so she didn’t breathe, fighting off the pull of his male sexuality that had undermined her will so many times.

  His gaze burned over her face with searing contempt. “What did I ever see in a money-grubbing bitch like you?” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  The hot moistness of his breath fanned her cheeks, and Vanessa turned her face partially from him. She hated the weakness that was spreading through her limbs. Her stomach churned with the emotional turmoil of this violently charged scene. What was she doing here? Why hadn’t she stayed away from him?

  Then the reason pushed its way forward. “I didn’t come here because of the alimony,” she began stiffly. “I don’t care if you pay it or not. I don’t need it anymore. That wasn’t why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Really?” Race taunted, watching her lips with cold interest.

  “It’s your father.” The hesitancy in her voice shifted his attention, his gaze narrowing as it met hers.

  “Did he send you here?” Cynicism coated his question. The divorce had created a rift between father and son, Vanessa knew, but since she never talked about Race or even mentioned his name to Phillip, she wasn’t sure of their present relationship—whether there might have been some tentative bridging.

  “No. Not exactly,” Vanessa qualified her answer slightly, compassion filling her expression to drive out the anger and bitterness. “Your father had a heart attack this morning, Race.” His flatly muscled chest expanded with a quickly indrawn breath, although there was little change in his expression except for the probing search of his gaze for more information. “He’s been asking for you,” Vanessa explained.

  He shoved away from the wall, turning to take a step toward the desk. “How serious is it?” he questioned without looking at her.

  “It was classified as a mild attack. His condition had stabilized when I left,” she replied. “I’m sorry, Race.” She wasn’t sure if it was an expression of sympathy or an apology for raking up the past. “I probably should have made the message more clear, but it seemed too brutal and inhuman to simply leave word that Phillip had suffered a heart attack.”

  “What brought it on? Do you know?” Race moved some papers around on the desk, expressing only mild interest.

  “Not definitely, no.” Vanessa frowned, confused by his cool attitude. “I only spoke to Mrs. Devereux briefly. I think it happened at the bank while he was attending a board meeting.” Her frown deepened. “You will go see him?”

  “Yes.” He threw her a dry look over his shoulder. “Isn’t that why you came? Or were you hoping to prove you were right when you claimed I had oil running through my veins?”

  Vanessa had forgotten she had once accused him of that. All desire to argue with him had gone, so she didn’t make any comment to his baiting questions.

  “I take it that you’ll be going to the hospital when you get back to New Orleans,” Race guessed.

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  “Any objections if I ride with you?” he challenged with an arched brow. Without giving her a chance to answer, Race continued on a caustically mocking note. “I’m sure it won’t come as any surprise to you if I admit I can’t afford the gasoline for the trip. This exploratory well has got me in hock up to my neck.”

  “It’s no surprise.” Her shoulders sagged with the flatness of her voice. In that respect, Race hadn’t changed. He might be tougher, but he still was broke. If it wasn’t for his father, Vanessa told herself, she’d inform Race he could hitch a ride with his thumb. “You can ride with me.” But she was dreading the prospect of that much time in his company. She wasn’t sure if her frayed nerves could stand it.

  “Let’s go, then.” The grimness in his expression seemed to reflect her own feelings.

  Race was already halfway to the door before Vanessa moved away from the wall. With a lack of gentlemanly courtesy, he walked out of the officer trailer ahead of her and descended the metal steps, swinging off the last one to splash through the mud below it toward the pickup trucks. Jeb Bannon was leaning against the nearest one, smoking a cigarette. He ground it into the ground beneath his boot heel when Race approached, his glance flicking to Vanessa as she appeared in the doorway.

  The incessant pounding of the drilling rig with its powerful motor covered the brief exchange of conversation between Race and the second man. Vanessa imagined Race was informing the man that he was leaving.
She hesitated on the last step, trying to judge how far she had to jump to land on relatively solid ground. Not for anything was she going to ask Race to help her.

  But he was already sloshing through the mud to the steps. The sardonic light in his dark eyes mocked her predicament as a hand reached for her waist. She laid a steadying hand on his shoulder and braced herself to be swung off the step onto the ground. Instead of his hands spanning her waist to lift her down, they scooped her into his arms. She went stiff with shock at this unexpected contact with his hard, muscled torso. His physical strength was evident in the ease with which he carried her, flexed muscles making their imprint felt on her flesh. She was prickled by slivers of unwanted sensations, close enough to make out each individual sun-crease fanning out from the corners of his eyes.

  “High heels are not practical footwear at a drilling site—or white skirts, for that matter,” Race observed dryly.

  “But it isn’t on my list of frequently visited places, either,” she retorted as she realized he intended to carry her all the way to the car.

  “That’s true enough,” he agreed with bitter grimness. “Even when we were married, you didn’t visit me on the sites but a couple of times.”

  Vanessa bridled at the thinly veiled criticism. “I suppose you condemn me for that. If you loved me at all, you would have missed me enough to come home once in a while.”

  The roughnecks on the drilling rig howled wolf calls, seeing something suggestively intimate in the sophisticated brunette being carried to her sleek sports car. It increased the discomfort Vanessa was experiencing in the strong cradle of his arms. The sensation was becoming too familiar. To combat it, she averted her gaze from his virile features to look ahead. The silver-gray Porsche was only a couple of yards away.

  Race stopped by the driver’s side, keeping a steadying arm around her waist while he let her feet slide to the ground. The instant she had her balance, Vanessa pushed away from the lean strength of his body, wanting no more contact with it. She was already aware of the rapid patter of pulse in her neck. She wanted her sexual attraction for him to be as dead as her love was, but she was slowly recognizing that it wasn’t as discriminating in its interest.

  “Do you want to drive?” Vanessa asked, remembering that he had never allowed her behind the wheel if they were going together.

  “It’s your car.” It was a hard smile. “You drive.”

  While she slid into the driver’s seat, Race walked around to the passenger side and climbed in, shoving her purse onto the floor. It felt odd to have him be the one sitting idly by the right window as she started the car.

  “Is this a vote of confidence?” Vanessa challenged, unable to let the milestone pass without comment. “You never used to trust me to drive you anywhere.”

  “Does it matter?” Race countered with a trace of sharpness, then adjusted the passenger seat to a reclining position. “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon skip the small talk and catch some sleep instead.”

  She shot a surprised glance at him, but his eyes were already closed, shutting her out somehow. His forehead was creased with weary lines, but it didn’t lessen the rawness she felt. As she turned the car onto the rutted lane leading away from the drilling site, Vanessa swallowed the bitter taste of irony. She should be feeling relief that there wouldn’t be any need to make stilted conversation, instead of feeling deprived of his company. Maybe she was feeling slighted because it was so typical of what their married life had been like—thus a painful reminder.

  Vividly she recalled the rare times Race had spent at home. He had usually been too tired to go anywhere, and he had despised social gatherings anyway. If he wasn’t in bed sleeping, he had usually been trying to persuade her to go to bed with him. The little talking they did was usually to quarrel about money.

  It really wasn’t surprising that the marriage had failed. Sometimes Vanessa wondered how it had lasted two years. It had been a mistake from the start.

  AS SHE entered the outskirts of New Orleans, Vanessa noticed the needle of the gas gauge was hovering on the empty mark. From experience, she knew it meant exactly what it said. There was a service station on the corner of the intersection just ahead. She flipped on the turn signal and stole a glance at Race.

  His long frame was wedged sideways in the seat, his head resting against the passenger door. The shallowness of his breathing confirmed he was sleeping, but she didn’t see how it was possible in such an uncomfortable position. Even in sleep, Race didn’t look vulnerable. The male strength was still there, with only some of the harsh cynicism erased from his sun-lined features.

  When she slowed the car to turn into the service station, Race stirred at the changing rhythm of the engine. As the car’s motion ceased altogether, he wakened and sat up stiffly, flexing cramped muscles.

  “I have to get gas.” Vanessa explained the obvious and switched off the engine.

  Race nodded wearily, haggard lines etched deeper in his face. Stretching out his right leg, he reached a hand inside his pants pocket. “I think I’ll use the pay phone inside to call the hospital,” he said.

  The service-station attendant paused beside the driver’s door while Vanessa rolled the window down. “Fill it up, please,” she requested, then glanced at Race. “Will you hand me my purse?”

  It was on the floor near his feet. Race extracted a coin from the handful of small change and shoved the rest back in his pocket before passing the purse to her. Vanessa stayed in the car while he went inside the building to make the call. Using the rearview mirror, she freshened her lipstick and tried to tuck the wisps of silky brown hair back into place.

  By the time Race had returned, the tank had been filled with gas and Vanessa had paid the attendant. Race slid into the passenger side and sent a short glance to her.

  “I spoke to the doctor, and he’s doing fine,” he stated.

  “Good.” She meant that, but she was also conscious that these were the first truly civil words they had exchanged.

  “Since there isn’t a critical need to get to the hospital immediately, I’d like to stop by my apartment so I can shower and change clothes before I see him. It won’t take more than twenty minutes at the outside.”

  A ripple of tension traveled along her spine. It wasn’t an unfair request, yet instinct advised her to refuse it. But she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to go to the hospital in his work-clothes and smelling of perspiration.

  “What’s the address?” she asked briskly.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “NO ONE would mistake it for the St. Charles,” Race commented wryly when Vanessa parked the car in front of the building address he’d given her.

  The two-story red-brick building showed signs of disrepair. The ornamental grillwork was rusting in places and the white paint trimming the windows had started to crack and chip. Grass was growing up through the cracks on the sidewalk. It was representative of several New Orleans neighborhoods that suffered from neglect.

  “Would you rather wait for me in the car or come inside?” he asked as he reached for the door handle.

  “I’ll come in with you.” Whether she was willing to admit it or not, Vanessa was curious to see where he lived. A little late, she realized Race hadn’t exactly invited her. “If you don’t mind.” She tacked the last on as an afterthought.

  His shoulders lifted in a shrug of indifference. “I wouldn’t have asked, if I did.” Without waiting for her final decision, Race climbed out of the car.

  Vanessa hesitated only a second longer before stepping out her side and walking around the hood to follow him up the sidewalk to the main door. Pushing it open, he entered ahead of her and held the door until she was through. With a gesture of his hand he indicated the shadowed staircase leading to the second floor. Vanessa climbed them a step ahead of Race.

  A dark-haired woman in a skimpy sundress lounged in the doorway of the apartment at the head of the stairs. Big blue eyes swept insolently over Vanessa before swinging
their attention to Race. A lazily sexy smile curved her full red lips.

  “Race, honey, you got any cold beer?” she drawled.

  “Sure.” There was a jingle of keys as he stepped past Vanessa and moved to the door catty-corner across the hall from the brunette. “I always keep a supply of cold beer on hand, Marie. You know that,” Race chided the woman, his glance raking her wellendowed figure with appreciative boldness before sliding mockingly to Vanessa.

  With sickening resentment Vanessa was aware that Race had shared more than the same apartment building and a few beers with the sultry brunette. He unlocked the door and pushed it open to let Vanessa enter.

  It was a small, efficiency-type apartment with a kitchen area occupying one wall. Vanessa moved tensely into the center of the main room, breathing in the staleness of the air that reeked of unemptied ashtrays and dust. The refrigerator in the corner was an ancient white one. Race walked over to it and opened the door.

  “How many do you want, Marie?” He glanced toward the hallway door. Vanessa swung partially around to see his sexy neighbor posing in the doorway.

  “Just a couple,” the brunette replied, wrinkling her nose and somehow managing to make the grimacing expression appear sexy. He took two brown beer bottles from the refrigerator and crossed the room to give them to Marie. “Thanks, Race. And I’m really sorry about intruding when you’re entertaining.”

  Liar, Vanessa thought viciously.

  Race slid a cynically laughing glance at Vanessa. “I’m not exactly ‘entertaining,’ Marie,” he corrected his neighbor. “My ex-wife is just doing a bit of slumming.”

  “Oh.” The amused look Marie gave her flamed Vanessa’s imagination with the one-sided tales Race had probably told her. Then Marie was smiling at him again. “If you get bored, you know where I am.” With feline grace she moved out of the doorway, to disappear into the hallway.