“I don’t know, Cali. I’ve fallen in and out of relationships so many times I just can’t take it anymore.” Staring down at his scarred hands, Pete added, “My parents have a relationship based on mutual admiration and respect.”
“Like my folks,” Cali agreed. “It’s a generational thing, maybe. I mean, look at our contemporaries. We can’t keep a relationship going for three months, much less thirty years!”
“What does that say about us?” Pete mused, more to himself than her. It was so easy to talk with Cali. “What’s in us that we can’t make a relationship work? Are we so narcissistic and into ourselves that we lack the selflessness it takes to make a relationship fly? Are we so scared of making a commitment that, at the least hint of one, we find something wrong with the person we’re with and force them to leave?”
“Or,” Cali added thoughtfully, “are we trying to live up to an impossible standard our parents set for us? Maybe we lack the grit and heart that real love demands from both people to make it work.”
“If I had those answers, I wouldn’t be where I am.” That was the truth, and Pete didn’t like admitting it.
“So,” Cali wondered out loud, “do we demand such perfection of our partner that they’ll never reach that bar?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “I know I look at every woman I date and compare her to my mother, to my parents’ relationship.”
“So do I, with men,” Cali said. “Probably a fatal mistake. I know better. All people are different.”
“Are we aiming too high, then?” Pete asked her. Cali’s face was less tense now, he noticed with relief.
“Maybe we are as unable to forgive our imperfect partner as we are unable to forgive ourselves for our daily mistakes.”
“You might be on to something.”
Cali was hungry for personal conversation with Pete. Maybe because of the combination of whiskey and being in shock, she felt brave enough to ask him deeply personal questions. “So, what are some of your warts?”
Pete felt his guard go up. He’d wanted to be a good listener for Cali, but now he wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh, no, you first. You brought up this topic.”
“Chicken heart.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Men. You want to be seen as so tough and capable, and yet you’re like melted butter in a skillet about some things. I’ve watched your face change when one of the Afghan workmen brought his baby son for you to meet, Pete. What is it about men showing their soft underbelly? What stops you from being just as vulnerable and open as women are?”
“Social training, maybe?” he suggested. “Is that what you look for in a man? Vulnerability?”
Cali sat up and uncurled her legs. “I want to be able to express, share and feel every emotion with the man in my life. He doesn’t have to cry, but he can. I want him to be in touch with his emotions, and more importantly, I want him unafraid to share them all with me—the good, the bad and the ugly. I don’t think that’s asking too much, do you?” Cali gave him a scrutinizing look.
“No, but it’s asking a lot. Most men can’t do that, Cali.” Pete shifted uncomfortably. This was the first time they’d had a personal conversation, and it mattered to him more than he wanted to admit.
“Can’t or won’t? From where I stand, it’s a social conditioning process that definitely needs to be thrown away,” Cali said, frustration in her voice. “Men can feel just as deeply as any woman. You can’t tell me you don’t. But if a man can’t share his feelings with the woman he loves, then there’s a loss of intimacy. And if a man can’t be intimate with his partner, what’s the use of getting serious?”
Pete felt compelled to move the conversation to safer ground. “My parents have that kind of intimacy. So I know it’s possible.”
Cali pressed her palm to her brow for a moment as a wave of dizziness came and went. “You’re right, Pete. I watched my parents growing up, and they were always intimate with one another. They would sit down every night at the dinner table and talk about their day, problems, triumphs and failures. I had good training on what it takes to keep a marriage together. And so far, I haven’t found one man on the planet who has the guts to just be an ordinary human being who feels things and can share them with me.” Russ had pretended to be that way, but she didn’t want to reveal this debacle with Pete just yet. The radio on his belt squawked suddenly, and if Cali didn’t know better, she would think he looked relieved.
He straightened and answered the call. Hesam had arrived, and questioning of the Taliban prisoners would begin. Pete had to get back to the security trailer pronto.
“You heard the call.” He rose, tucking the radio back into his belt. Truth be known, he was glad to be leaving. The spell between them was broken, and Pete was thankful in one way. In another, his lonely heart had absorbed this quiet, honest moment, possibly more than he liked.
“Keep me in the loop on this. And would you call my dad?”
“That’s a promise. I’ll call him first and then go to the security trailer, where Hesam is waiting.” Glancing down, Pete studied her hands, which were almost as callused and scarred as his. Cali earned her living by being one with the earth, just as he did. He wanted to reach down, squeeze her fingers reassuringly and make her feel better. He couldn’t do that, but his heart accelerated with sudden, unexpected joy. Pete felt incredibly light, as if he were lifted on invisible wings. The look in Cali’s eyes, however, was solemn and dark. She was a pensive, intelligent woman who dug into the enigmatic corners of herself and others. That scared him. And that was good, he told himself. Cali expected too much of a man. Based on what she’d said, he certainly couldn’t fill her needs. Pete should have felt relief over that, but he didn’t.
“Tell my dad that after I have a nap, I’ll call him,” Cali said. The sudden, crazy desire she felt to stand up and step into Pete’s arms surprised her. The part of her that apparently hadn’t learned the lessons Russ had taught her wanted to throw herself into Pete’s embrace, kiss him until they melted together in a scalding pool of desire.
It had to be the whiskey and the adrenaline, Cali told herself. Right now, she felt weak and almost out of control. She’d never had two close brushes with death and wasn’t sure how to cope with them.
“I’ll reassure him you’re okay,” Pete murmured. He pulled the cap from his back pocket and settled it on his head. If he didn’t leave, he’d be treading on dangerous ground—a big mistake. Patting the radio, he said, “I’ll see you later. Call me if you need anything.”
“I won’t need anything.” Cali was lying, but that was okay. “I think I’ll lie down for a while.”
“It’s a good thing to do, after shock,” he agreed softly. “I’ll let you know what we find out from the prisoners.”
“Thanks. I’d like that.”
Cali watched as he walked toward the door. Pete’s shoulders were incredibly broad. And he carried many responsibilities on them with the ease of a born leader. She knew men who could never handle what Pete did here at the site. He was a damn good manager and the Afghan workmen truly respected him. Even liked him, which was unusual. Heart glowing, she fought the feelings. Right now, she was exhausted. And her boundaries with Major Trayhern were at an all-time low. Somehow, Cali knew she had to repair them and get some distance. She’d never expected him to rescue her, much less hold her. And the walls she’d erected against him had dissolved like putty when he’d unexpectedly embraced her out there. Confused and in pain, Cali was glad to see him leave. She had to have time to heal herself emotionally to remain immune to Pete Trayhern.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE LATE-AUGUST HEAT was blistering as Cali stood off to one side of the cement operation with Pete. This was the first test run on mixing concrete. The three hoppers, large steel cylinders with sloping bottoms, stood upright in their sturdy steel frames. One held cement, another sand and the last one gravel. The screw assemblies at the bottom of each fed just the right amount of each material into a lar
ge metal mixing drum—or were supposed to. There, a measured amount of water was added to create the specified concrete blend.
Cali’s heart beat a little harder in her chest. Roland Construction was responsible for supplying the different types of concrete for the foundation pours. She’d labored long hours with engineers of the German company that had won the subcontracting bid to erect and operate the plant. Making concrete was like mixing up batter for a cake, she thought, smiling to herself. A number of workmen were moving about, including Albert Golze, the head of the company.
“Looks good,” Pete said to her, giving her a sideways glance. The hot Afghan sun burned overhead and he was sweating freely. So was she. Her green eyes, glimmering with excitement and anticipation, tugged at his heart.
“Yes. Fingers crossed. First pour. Let’s see how today goes.” Cali lifted the radio to her lips and told Golze to start the process.
The machinery began to rumble and roar. The mixing drum turned, and water splashed as it rotated. Cali watched the process with great interest. Today was an important day, a make-or-break moment. A passing breeze cooled her sweaty skin momentarily, under the long-sleeved white blouse protecting her arms from the sun. It had been a smart move to wet down the pink bandanna she always wore around her neck. It acted like a mini air conditioner of sorts.
“Here come the delivery trucks,” she told Pete, pointing to four big vehicles slowly backing down into the area where the drum would release the first batch of concrete. Worry laced her anticipation. This was a nerve-racking ordeal for any contractor wanting to impress her boss.
Pete nodded at her. “I liked your jury-rigging on that dump, since we only have two real concrete mixers out here.”
Cali arched inwardly, relishing his praise. “Lessons learned from other sites in third world countries.” Pete, as owner, was responsible for furnishing six concrete mixing trucks. But two trucks had disappeared en route to the site and two had been damaged beyond repair in road accidents. Replacements were ordered, but no one could guarantee when they would be delivered. They’d had to improvise or fall months behind schedule. Four dump trucks had been requisitioned by Cali, and their beds rebuilt by her welding crews to carry concrete around the site. It was jury-rigging at its best, but in a remote, rural environment like this, she had to have cards up her sleeve to ensure the job came in on time.
Pete watched the lead dump truck ease down the incline, the driver following hand signals of a German construction worker. Pete had to give Golze credit—he and his men had worked their asses off converting four of their best dump trucks into concrete carriers in lieu of the specially designed mixers. Golze and Cali had worked for weeks designing a steel container to fit in the bed of each truck. It was nail-biting time for Pete. He hadn’t been sure what she could come up with as a fix for the problem.
“Think we’ll ever get the required number of mixers out here?” Cali asked. The truck was now ready to receive a load of concrete, and she tried to remain patient. Let it work without a hitch…. Unconsciously, she held her breath again.
“Doubtful,” he responded.
Golze himself was in the control house above the waiting truck bed. If one of the three hopper feeds didn’t work properly, the load would have to be dumped and lost. Not to mention this would slow down the entire schedule, which Pete knew she wanted to avoid. He was tense for her and for himself. Since the Taliban attack a couple of weeks ago, the whole site had been riddled with tension. Today, it was either going to dissolve or stretch to its limit, depending upon what happened in the next few minutes.
Pete saw the different hoppers delivering their ingredients. The sounds of the mixing drum groaning and grinding continued as it slowly turned. He could see the gray slush from where he stood. “So far, so good,” he murmured. Taking a water bottle from his belt, he slugged down half of it. Staying hydrated in a hot desert like this was essential. Cali followed suit.
Pete enjoyed gazing out the corner of his eye at the curve of her long, graceful neck. She was attractive no matter what way she moved or what angle he viewed her from. And since her scrape with death at the hands of the Taliban, his protective nature had been working overtime. He saw the three pink scars on her neck where glass shards had been removed. He’d also noted shiny scars dotting her beautifully tanned arms. It hurt him to see what the bastards had done to her.
The interrogation of the attackers had confirmed they were Taliban. They refused to answer any questions except to tell Pete they hated Americans and would kill them on sight. Hesam’s guards had taken them away for further interrogation. The sheik had discovered the men were part of a larger ring operating from a high mountain village in the Hindu Kush range. With the help of another sheik, Hesam had sent fifty of his soldiers on horseback up to that faraway cave. They had captured twenty-five more Taliban fighters, who were now in custody in Kabul. Since then, there had been no more attacks on the site, and Pete hoped the lull would continue. His mind turned back to the woman standing at his side.
How different Cali was from others he had known. She shrugged off the scars, saying that they were just medals of valor for living life. He liked her attitude. Wisps of red hair clung damply to her temples as she put the bottle back into her belt. Pete had wanted another in-depth conversation with her, but site demands stood in the way. Yes, he was with Cali for up to eighteen hours a day, off and on, but the project took precedence. Often, Javad was at his side, and Pete was grateful not to have to deal with his deeper feelings.
And thinking of Javad, he saw the young man smiling and waving as he limped up the hill toward them. Javad always carried a radio, to communicate with Pete and translate orders to the work crews when necessary. He had a new prosthetic leg, thanks to Pete’s intervention with a Kabul hospital. No longer did the boy have to hobble around on crutches.
Pete nodded a greeting to his approaching assistant, then turned back to watch the operation.
Everything took time and skill. Golze came down off the platform where the operations shed was located—the structure housing the instrument panel that controlled the mixing process. He threw Pete a thumbs-up, grinning broadly.
“He’s confident,” Cali said hopefully. Oh please, let this pour go well. How badly she wanted to show Pete that she had what it took to do the job. Russ had hurt her confidence, and Cali saw this project as a way to prove to herself she still had the goods.
Pete crooked one corner of his mouth upward, and heat suffused her body. That little-boy smile of his was so precious. She ached for just one hour alone with him, such as they’d shared three weeks ago in her trailer. Since then, they’d returned to their usual impersonal, professional behavior. That hour had nearly been her undoing. Under no circumstance could Cali let down her guard like that again.
“I think confidence and construction go together. Both start with a C,” Pete said. “You can’t have one without the other.” His pulse beat a little harder as he watched Golze walk over to the hoppers. So much hinged on this effort.
Cali nodded. She lifted her hard hat, wiped sweat from her brow and settled it back on her head. Golze was giving orders to the hopper operator, an Afghan who was being trained by the knowledgeable concrete foreman. Eventually, all these functions would be handled by locals.
Pete had his own people ready to take test cylinders of the poured concrete. The samples would be cured and then tested at specified standards by junior civil engineers working alongside the German crew. They would check the concrete, not Golze. Pete had his own men on the job because the concrete crew might be tempted to fudge on the numbers and say the mix was fine, when it wasn’t. That way, good concrete got poured and bad batches were rejected.
Again, Pete’s nerves fluttered and his stomach tightened. Bad concrete was a nightmare he didn’t want or need.
Cali watched with anxiety as the drum containing the concrete slowly released its load into the waiting truck. When the gray slush started running into the metal vat, the jur
y-rigged dump truck groaned and settled on its shocks. Cali knew such vehicles were not specifically designed to haul the monumental weight of several cubic yards of wet concrete. She and Golze had calculated meticulously, matching capacity with material poundage.
“Here we go,” Pete said warily. “Come on, let’s watch the first foundation pour.”
The banked enthusiasm in his voice ignited her own nervous tension. She saw worry and excitement in his face. Mouth dry from anxiety, she took another swig of water, then followed him across the dusty, graveled parking area to their trucks. They would drive the short distance to the actual power plant foundation site.
The dump truck groaned, coughed and backfired. Then slowly it chugged up the dirt incline from the mixer area. Gears ground as the Afghan driver learned firsthand about carrying heavy, wet concrete.
By the time Cali arrived at the pour site, Pete was already feeling hopeful. He watched, mesmerized, as the truck bed lifted with groaning protest. Gray concrete oozed out of the makeshift hopper and ran sluggishly into the waiting forms below. Five German crew members, with Afghan counterparts, were armed with concrete vibrators to insure the mix flowed evenly around the steel reinforcing bars. It was important to get the concrete well distributed; air bubbles took a lot of work and money to correct. The process would continue for four straight hours, the dump trucks interspersed with the two mixers.
“Looks good,” Pete said finally. A sharp drop in tension allowed his stomach to relax. It had been only twenty minutes and that was good for a first pour. Since the concrete would have another slab right above, it wasn’t necessary to steel trowel the surface.
He watched his people put the last of the test cylinders in their boxes. They would be moved to the curing room later, to be crushed at seven-, fourteen- and twenty-one-day intervals to ensure the concrete met specifications. If the samples passed muster, it meant the concrete was good. If they didn’t, concrete that had just been poured would have to be taken out and the process started all over again.
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