Her Rebel Heart

by Jamie Farrell

  It didn’t make sense.

  That pumpkin should’ve been guts on the ground before it ever took flight.

  “Y’all did great,” Kaci said to the team. “I am so proud of every single one of you.”

  “Great magic formula, Thumper,” one of the guys crowed.

  Several others hushed him.

  The judge, a pretty lady in her mid-forties, winked at him.

  The head judge’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Two thousand eighty-six feet,” he announced.

  The black-shirted bandits all erupted in deafening shouts.

  The best Ichabod had done for Kaci’s girls was a penny past two thousand.

  Those boys had just beaten her girls by eighty feet.

  “But—but…” Jess mumbled.

  Given the materials, height, and leverage mechanism those danged military guys had used to construct their pumpkin chucker, not to mention the launch velocity and the way they’d cranked the arm down even lower for the last shot, it should’ve been physically impossible.

  It was physically impossible.

  Unless—

  The rubbing.

  They’d put something on the pumpkin to keep it from exploding on takeoff.

  They’d lubricated it to reinforce the skin.

  And the judge had seen them do it.

  She’d winked at them.

  Kaci’s blood vaporized and her temper spiked madder than a wet bumblebee.

  She didn’t mind losing. But she minded losing to cheaters, especially when her students were being robbed of a prize they’d not only earned but needed. She had a hair up her butt to show those cheaters just how redneck she could be.

  If Kaci had learned anything from her mother, Miss Mississippi and second runner-up in the Miss USA pageant, it was the power and advantage of chin up, shoulders back, and belle them to death first.

  Then they’d never see the redneck coming.

  “Y’all stay here and get Ichabod hitched up to the Jeep,” she said.

  She wanted to charge headfirst like a bull over the trampled fairground grass to show those macho, cheating dingbats how this lady handled problems. Instead she put a sway in her stride and a smile on her lips while she approached the other team.

  The team’s shirts all bore the logo for the Wild Hogs, Gellings Air Force Base’s 946th Airlift Squadron. Military men in general made her twitch—especially lately—but flyers were enough to induce a seizure.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” She stopped at the edge of their group and ran her finger down the closest one’s arm.

  Eight close-cropped heads swiveled in her direction, and all their backslapping and pompous self-congratulations over their victory trickled to a stop.

  She curved her lips into a coy smile. “I just wanted to say that y’all did a spectacular job today. I have never seen a pumpkin sprout wings like that.” She batted her lashes. Lull them into safety, then get them to admit they cheated so they’d be disqualified. “Y’all must be so strong. And smart. Me and my impressionable young friends would love some pointers on how we could get our poor little thingie over there to work half as good as yours.”

  The one with the aviator sunglasses flashed a wolfish grin. “Well, miss, it’s all in getting the right torque.”

  “And a really good pumpkin,” the fresh-faced one added with a snicker.

  She treated him to a smile and a subtle tug on her pink V-neck, exposing the barest hint of cleavage. Four of the men went slack-jawed. Three more angled closer to her.

  The young pups were so easy. They had a few years on her girls—couldn’t be pilots without a good bit of schooling—but she doubted any one of them was pushing thirty.

  “Y’all got a magic pumpkin?” she whispered.

  “Close—” The fresh-faced one’s voice came out on a prepubescent squeak. He cleared his throat and covered with a wink. “Close enough, miss.”

  “No magic pumpkin,” Aviator Sunglasses said. “We’ve got something better.”

  No magic pumpkin, her ass. And she’d bet anything his something better was Vaseline or beer rubbed all over its skin. She fluttered her lashes while glancing at the pop cans, rags, and tools scattered about the ground. Had they used Coke?

  “We’re just a poor group of college kids doing our best on a small budget and limited brains,” she lied. “We’d love to hear more about your methods.”

  Such an easy half lie to tell. And for a good cause.

  Her girls were mostly second- and third-year students who had been busting their tails designing and building Ichabod since they’d all come out to the fall festival and observed the competition last year. They’d lost sleep, boyfriends, and weekends for this. Every last one of them was on a scholarship or financial aid of some kind, and half of them worked part-time jobs to keep their heads above water.

  And these men had cheated their way to the top and robbed Kaci’s girls of splitting prize money that would’ve gone a long way toward next semester’s books for each of them.

  Not to mention the publicity of having an all-girls team win. Too few women believed they were smart enough to go into science and technology careers.

  She tugged her shirt a millimeter lower. “We’d be most grateful if y’all would be willing to share a few pointers with little ol’ us.”

  The flyers all shared a glance.

  A guilty glance, in her opinion.

  “Sorry, miss, but it’s proprietary,” the fresh-faced one said.

  She fluttered a hand to her chest. “Oh, that kind of proprietary?” she whispered.

  “What kind of proprietary?” a new voice said.

  She turned. A tall, lanky, dark-eyed man with barely-within-regs jet-black hair had his legs spread and his arms crossed while he stared her down. He was in the same black T-shirt as the rest of the crew but, unlike his buddies, he had his dark gaze trained on her eyes with an authority and a confidence that seemed to be daring her to look away.

  Her stomach dropped.

  Bad enough they’d taken her girls’ trophy.

  But he was on their team? Mr. Kiss-and-Run? Mr. In-Town-Today-Only? Mr. Left-her-with-his-tab?

  This was so not her day.

  She subtly shifted her posture to make her breasts stand perkier and waved a hand at the fresh-faced guy. Hell if she’d let this flyboy see her sweat. “I was just asking your boss here if you strong, capable men might be able to help my little ol’ group make our pumpkin thrower thingie better.”

  His lips twitched. Barely a fraction of an inch up, but it was enough to make her ovaries sit up and notice. Something hot pulsed between her thighs, and her brain train stuttered to an emergency stop.

  Traitorous body.

  “Aren’t you with the Jim Bob team?” His accent was subtle—Southern in a Momma’s-in-the-Junior-League way, rather than thick country hold-my-beer-and-watch-this—and his eyes had game. Take-no-prisoners, accept-no-bullshit, jump-right-in-and-play-along game.

  Just as they had the night she’d first met him. The only night she’d thought she’d ever see him.

  “Second place by a landslide?” he prompted.

  The man needed to quit talking before her feminine parts overruled her brain.

  He’d been a damn fine kisser. Until he ran away. Which was probably best for both of them, but she’d had a bad day. She should’ve been the one leaving him. “Oh, sugar, a man like you surely understands there’s no glory in second place.”

  “Sure isn’t. But you get a monstrosity like yours to fling a gourd that far, don’t think you need any help from us.”

  “My momma always taught me it was proper to be sociable with your competitors.”

  His gaze dropped to her chest. And he didn’t have to say a thing, but she heard the message anyway. Your momma teach you to always use your boobs to get your way?

  It wasn’t often that Kaci blushed—at least, unintentionally—but this man calling her out on using her feminine wiles spiked the temperature in her
face.

  As if he were innocent in the wiles department. “I’m doing my darnedest to deal with all y’all politely, but there ain’t no way in hell that last pumpkin was normal.”

  “Because we busted the first two?”

  “Because that eyesore of a catapult isn’t physically capable of not busting a pumpkin on takeoff unless that pumpkin was juiced.”

  His lips finally spread into a full smile, but it wasn’t a nice smile. “It’s not an eyesore. It’s mine. And it’s physically capable of anything in the right conditions.”

  “Aha! You admit you greased your gourd.”

  He took one large step toward her, let his hands drop to his sides, spread his shoulders wide, and aimed a don’t-insult-my-pumpkin-chuckin’ warning glare at her. “I admit I made a better pumpkin chucker than you did, and that’s it.”

  “By cheating.” She clenched her thighs together and told herself the excitement building in her chest was from the thrill of a challenge. Not from an irrational, sexually-charged memory about what those large, long-fingered hands had felt like on her body, or how his smoldering brown eyes had looked in the dim bar.

  She should’ve known he was a flyer. Wild, unpredictable, and dangerous to that little organ pumping erratically in her chest.

  His gaze stayed steady on her. If he recognized her, he was doing a dang good job of hiding it. “Only thing we rubbed on our pumpkin was luck. What are you? Senior in college? Grad student?”

  Not anytime in the past decade. “Didn’t your momma teach you it’s not polite to ask a lady’s age?”

  “Word of advice, Pixie-lou. You want to build a machine like this, gotta get out of your momma’s house and live a little outside the books.”

  Pixie-lou? The man was asking to have a firecracker aimed up his nether regions. “You have no idea—”

  “I have no idea, but it’s okay for you to come over here, flash your boobs at my friends, and accuse us of cheating?”

  She refused to flush again. He’d liked her boobs just fine a few weeks ago.

  Until he up and left in the middle of kissing her like she was his oxygen.

  Lordy, she was about to have a hot flash. She gritted her teeth. “The laws of physics don’t lie, and the laws of physics say it’s impossible for you to stay within the rules of this contest and still launch an intact pumpkin that far. Your takeoff speed was too high for the surface tension of a normal pumpkin.”

  “Or maybe it was just right. We didn’t grease our gourd. And even if we had, it’s still within the rules.”

  She sucked in a breath.

  Was it within the rules?

  “Can’t help that you didn’t win,” the fresh-faced one said, “but I’d be happy to comfort you tonight.”

  Oooh, these flyers were so stinking arrogant.

  Her dark-haired, sinful-eyed nemesis smirked at her. “We’re gonna go get our prize. Load her up, boys. Time to celebrate.”

  An irrational disappointment flooded her chest. “You’re robbing eight hardworking ladies of a prize they deserve.”

  “Happy to introduce you to someone who can teach y’all how to be gracious losers. Good life skill.”

  Several of the men snickered while they broke away from her and headed toward the makeshift stage.

  Her daddy never would’ve acted like that. And she was horrified that she’d actually considered taking that man home.

  Thank goodness he’d up and left her panting at the bar.

  “Hope that trophy keeps you warm at night,” she muttered. “Because there’s not a woman in town who’ll take the job.”

  Except the judge, apparently. And half the women out here today.

  And Kaci herself.

  Lordy. She had issues.

  The fresh-faced kid slapped the pompous, dark-haired loser-proclaimer on the back. “Thumper here ain’t ever had a problem with that, miss. None of us do. But we appreciate your concern all the same.”

  The lot of them laughed at that.

  Thumper didn’t spare her another glance.

  “They really built that themselves, Dr. Boudreaux?” Zada said when she returned to their group.

  “So they say,” Kaci said.

  “And their pumpkin wasn’t rigged?”

  “Seems not. I’m still super proud of all y’all,” Kaci replied. Were they right? Was it within the rules to pad the pumpkins? She hadn’t looked—she’d simply assumed they used the standard Punkin Chunkin rules, even if this wasn’t an official national contest.

  But if they were right, then the only one acting like an ass out here today was her.

  Her cheeks flamed up again. “We’ll get ’em next year. Ice cream on me once we’ve got Ichabod put away.”

  “Rather have a beer,” Jess muttered.

  “And I’d rather not hear about it until you’re twenty-one,” Kaci chirped. “C’mon, y’all. Time for the awards. Let’s get up there and smile like we mean it.”

  What else could they do?

  But later…later, she would fix this. Somehow, she’d make it right for her girls.

  * * *

  Lance should have been furious. Or at least irritated.

  He’d almost made himself forget the blonde from the bar, but there she was, stomping back to her team.

  “Chick’s batshit crazy, but damn,” Juice Box said. The kid, real name Devon Grant, was fresh out of training and equal parts annoying and helpful. He was lanky and his light hair made him seem younger than he actually was. “I’d hit that.”

  Lance’s hand curled into a fist. “Shut up and get to work.”

  Juicy slapped him on the back. “I’ll give you first dibs, man. Telling you, get laid, you’ll feel better.” He sauntered off to help pack up the catapult.

  The kid was so much like himself four years ago, it hurt.

  Worst part, though, was knowing that he was reverting to who he’d been when he was fresh out of pilot training too.

  Wanting to kick his own ass for tucking tail and running away from a willing woman. Wondering if he could get her name from the pumpkin-chucking organizers.

  If she still needed to make her ex jealous.

  Getting mildly and inexplicably ragey at the idea that he’d missed his chance.

  Because if the woman had done anything else—besides accuse him of cheating—she’d reinforced his opinion of her from the night they met.

  She was the utter, complete opposite of Allison.

  And that was the one thing he hadn’t found anywhere else in the past month.

  Pony, the dark-haired, pirate-ish senior pilot in the squadron, shoved a tarp at him. The guy had a swagger that he’d earned and he didn’t mince his words. “Chick’s got balls.”

  “You sleep with the judge last night?”

  “Nah.” Pony flashed his signature crooked grin. “That was six months ago.”

  “We didn’t cheat, did we?”

  “Fuck no. Random pumpkin draw, same as everyone else. She was complimenting our wood.”

  Pony kept everyone honest and in line in the squadron, so Lance didn’t have any reason to doubt him. Though rather new to Gellings himself, he got the impression Pony was as honorable in his personal life.

  “Glad your modifications worked so well,” Pony added. “Would’ve hated to lose to a bunch of girls.”

  Lance’s shoulders bunched. “Say that in front of my sister, and she’ll fly her fighter up your ass.”

  Pony laughed and went back to loading up the catapult.

  Lance stole another glance at the blonde and her crew.

  The night they’d met, he would’ve pegged her for being just out of college, maybe a couple years older. Wrapped up in the drama of having an ex-boyfriend, or maybe in pretending she had one so she could use a jealous ex as an excuse to make out with strangers in bars. But she was definitely older than the rest of her team. The diverse group of girls all had one thing in common—they seemed to be looking to the blonde for guidance and reassurance.
>
  She’d pat one on the back. Get nods from two others. Make half of them laugh. All in the span of four heartbeats.

  Her group kept their distance during the awards.

  Probably best.

  He didn’t take well to being called a cheater.

  An hour later, he was home. The place still smelled like sawdust and fresh concrete. The weekend his wedding hadn’t happened, his mom and sister had quietly taken care of the boxes of wedding presents piled in the guest bedroom. They’d plastered the living room walls with photos of planes, some with Lance in them, some those inspirational crap posters. Cheri, his twin, had brought in University of Alabama throw pillows, fleece blankets, and bobbleheads to cover up the bare spots where Allison’s knickknacks and her grandmother’s crocheted afghans had been.

  But within three days, he had known it wouldn’t be enough. He needed to get the hell out of Gellings, out of Georgia, out of the South. He’d only asked to come here because he’d known Allison wanted to be close to home. Left to his own devices, he’d have gone anywhere west of the Mississippi. Overseas. New England, even.

  Would’ve been nice if Allison could’ve decided she was done with him six months earlier. Out-of-cycle orders were hard to come by. Deployments aside, he was stuck here for at least two years.

  So he’d made the worst-best decision of his life.

  “Pony’s pulling the old man card,” Juice Box announced when Lance walked into the kitchen. Where Allison would’ve been waiting with fresh cookies on the counter and a chicken in the oven, Juicy was digging through the liquor cabinet over the fridge. “Says we’re doing a bonfire at his place instead of hitting the bars tonight.”

  Lance tossed his keys on the granite countertop separating the kitchen from the living room. “Good. Had enough of women for one day.”

  “We’ll find you one who doesn’t talk,” Juicy said.

  Lance grunted.

  “Not like that blonde. Holy shit, she was a hot mess. You think she gives good head?”

  “Shut up, Juicy.”

  “You got marshmallows?”

  The things he had to teach this kid. “You take marshmallows to a bonfire with the squadron, they’ll change your call sign from Juice Box to Breast Milk.”