With her heart racing a mile a minute, Gillian struggled to deal with the alarming way her body was reacting to the cowboy. Jiminy Christmas, she'd just met the man. There should be no reaction.
Striving to control her wayward hormones, Gillian studied the passing scenery. The land was rough and wild, broken up by acres and acres of cultivated farmland. Long rows of cotton stretched for miles, the red dirt dividing the thin green columns.
Gillian didn't believe in instant sexual attraction; or, she hadn't believed in it up until a moment ago. Most of the romance novels she read were based on it, but somehow she'd never thought it could really happen. At least, not to her. Until now.
"About your job--" Dallas began, then hesitated.
"My job?" She didn't look at him, didn't want to look at him.
"Do you think Copper River will strike oil?"
Gillian turned her head slightly until the cowboy was in her peripheral vision. He had almost choked on those last two words. He must be really upset.
"I'm not sure how far along they are. There have been quite a few setbacks on this particular project."
"Not near enough, if you ask me," grumbled Dallas under his breath.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. Forget it," he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "How much longer do you think it will take?"
"To strike oil?" Gillian glanced at him. He actually cringed at her words.
"Yes, damn it. How much longer?"
He threw her such a look of loathing, Gillian scooted closer toward the door. The look wasn't directed at her personally, she reminded herself. He was angry about the drilling on his land. "I won't know for certain until I make my inspections. Even then, I won't know for sure. I'll keep you informed. I promise."
She thought the muscled shoulders relaxed a bit, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The breath caught half way down to her lungs. The loathing she'd seen in the blue eyes intensified as the rancher turned to stare at her.
"Don't bother keeping me informed," he said. "You keep your pretty little ass on the drilling site. I don't want to see you on any other part of my land. You got that straight, lady?"
Gillian exhaled the rest of the forgotten breath. She felt her cheeks grow red. No one had ever spoken to her in that tone of voice before. Not the roughnecks on the drilling sites. Not even her dead husband.
"Stop the truck."
"What?"
"I don't have to put up with your rudeness." She gathered her purse and held it against her chest. "I said to stop the truck."
"Damn it all to hell. Look, lady. It's six more miles to town. You planning to walk the rest of the way? And what about the tire? Gonna carry it? It's hot as hell out there."
"I'd rather die of heat stroke, than stay in here with you another minute," she said. "Now stop the truck!"
"No."
"Mr. McCade," Gillian said, trying for patience. Her temper was threatening her self-control. "I don't know why you decided to help me out. I thought you did it out of the kindness of your heart. But I was mistaken; you have no heart. You are a--"
"Bastard?" Dallas supplied helpfully.
Something glittered in those blue eyes again causing Gillian's fingers to curl around the leather strap of her purse.
"I wasn't going to say that."
Dallas shook his head in disbelief. "Sure you weren't, lady. Look, I may be a bas--" He faltered at Gillian's glare and began again. "I would be the biggest kind of scoundrel if I left you out in this heat, trying to change that tire. My mother taught me better."
"You actually have a mother?" Gillian bit her lip and looked away. What in the world was wrong with her? The man's fuse was short as it was. He didn't need her goading him. He had made it perfectly clear he didn't like her. And she certainly didn't like him.
Dallas whistled slowly, a soft low trill beneath his breath. She thought he might be trying to control his own temper. "I wasn't hatched under a rock, you know."
"Could have fooled me," Gillian said in a stage whisper. There, she'd done it again. Her mouth didn't usually go a mile a minute like this. The man certainly brought out the worst in her.
A full-throated chuckle reverberated through the cab of the truck. "You give as good as you get, don't you, Mrs. Bankston?"
"Just get me to town, Cowboy, so I can have the tire repaired." Gillian crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to acknowledge the quivery feeling his laughter evoked.
"Yes'm." He touched his hat and gave her that almost-smile again.
Gillian swallowed a sigh. Thank God, she wouldn't have much contact with Dallas McCade after this. He was the most exasperating man she'd ever had the misfortune to meet. His temper turned hot and cold in the space of seconds. He turned her hot and cold just as quickly.
She had only been in his company for ten minutes and she felt confused and rattled. And more alive than she'd felt in years. All her senses were on the alert. Too alert, for her peace of mind. The sooner they got to town, the sooner they could part ways, and the sooner she could put him from her mind for good.
****
Dallas slowed the truck as they passed the city limits sign of Salt Fork. For the past few minutes Gillian hadn't spoken a word. He ruthlessly denied that he missed her sass. He had no use for impudent women. For that matter, he had no use for women in general. Except in bed.
The quick tug in his groin almost made him groan aloud. Clutching the steering wheel tighter, Dallas shot a look at the woman sitting across from him. Her face was partially averted, but the smoothness of her cheek tempted his touch, the silkiness of her dark hair begged to be stroked.
"Damn it," he said as he pulled into Kincaid's Garage.
Gillian turned, her liquid brown eyes questioning his sudden outburst. "What's wrong?"
Dallas cut the motor. "Nothing," he said, gritting his teeth. He fought for control of his body. It was a close call, but he finally managed it. "Sam will be happy to fix your tire. I'll go find him." He climbed out of the truck and headed for the office beside the garage. He heard Gillian scrambling to catch up with him.
"Look, Cowboy," she said breathlessly, as she reached his side. "You've done enough. I can take it from here."
She hurried ahead and pushed open the glass door. Dallas followed closely behind. A small bell danced with the motion of the door, causing the man at the file cabinet to look up from his work.
"Good morning," Gillian said, stepping forward with her hand outstretched. "I'm Gillian Bankston and I have a tire that needs repair."
Sam Garza pushed the file drawer closed before walking over to shake her hand. His dark eyes held an appreciative look as he smiled at her greeting. "Well, Gillian Bankston, you've certainly come to the right place. Sam Garza at your service."
"Thank you. I know it will be a pleasure doing business with you." Gillian shot Dallas a haughty look over her shoulder.
"What can I do for you, Dallas?" Sam asked. "Are you with this charming lady?"
Dallas cursed womankind and their slippery conniving ways. It hadn't taken Gillian three seconds before she had Garza eating out of her hand. No way was he going to fall under her spell.
"I brought her, if that's what you mean. The tire's in the back of the truck. How long will it take to fix it?"
"Not long," Sam said. "Lucky for you, it's a slow day." He winked at Gillian, then stepped around the desk and out the door toward the truck.
Dallas glared at the woman. "I guess you'll want me to wait around and take you back to your car?"
"I wouldn't dream of putting you to any more trouble. You've done so much for me already, Cowboy." She smiled at him and raised her chin.
Dallas knew she was being sarcastic, but the low timbre of her voice beckoned him against his will. Taking a step forward, he closed the distance between them. He towered above her, looking down into the velvety depths of her brown eyes.
Gillian's breath hitched and her eyes widened. He saw fear, but there was something else,
too.
That something else flickering in Gillian's eyes intrigued him. He wasn't the only one affected by their closeness. The lady put on a good show of resistance, but he wondered . . . Hell, he shouldn't be wondering anything. He knew better than to mess with her kind. Besides, she was married.
Gillian stepped around him toward the phone on the desk. She lifted her chin another notch and cleared her throat. "I'll call the drilling site. I'm sure someone will be happy to assist me. I tried to call earlier, but I couldn't get a signal for my cell phone. Good bye, Mr. McCade."
Dallas gave her a long look. She stared right back. Straightening his Stetson, he headed for the door. "Good bye, Mrs. Bankston." And good riddance. He didn't need her. He didn't want her. She was the enemy in more ways than one, and he'd better never let himself forget it.
CHAPTER TWO
Gillian grabbed the hard hat from the corner of her desk, then hurried to the drilling platform. There wasn't much time between shifts, and Harold Johnston wanted to show her something. Something important.
She had been on the job for two weeks and was no closer to knowing what was holding up the progress of the drilling than when she had arrived. Going over the daily logs Raymond had painstakingly kept, Gillian learned there had been more than the usual number of mishaps and setbacks associated with a project this size.
At first it was small things, like misplaced tools and disconnected wires. Six months ago, someone had dropped ball bearings down the casing. Drilling had to be stopped while they were removed. Valuable time was lost to repairs. A month later, old broken drill bits had been thrown down the hole. Again time was lost. And time was money.
From what she had read, Gillian guessed someone was trying to sabotage the drilling. Dallas McCade came immediately to mind. His attitude and abruptness toward her clearly indicated his displeasure about the drilling on his land.
Except the accounts in the logbook pointed to an inside job. Why would someone working for Copper River Oil want to disrupt the drilling? They were working on a timetable with a definite end in sight. The lease was due to expire by the end of the year. If no oil was tapped, Copper River would lose money. Why would an employee want to wreak havoc on the project?
Maybe Dallas McCade had bribed someone. He knew only qualified personnel had access to the drilling platform. The site was manned twenty-four hours a day. The roughnecks worked two twelve-hour shifts. There was no way an outsider could sneak near enough to do damage and not get caught.
Gillian stepped out of the air-conditioned office trailer, placing the hard hat on her head. The sudden heat made her gasp for breath. Even though it was close to six in the evening, it was still hot. She felt trickles of sweat forming under the hard hat. She also felt something else.
A familiar tingling sensation pricked the hairs on the back of her neck. Slowly, she turned her head toward the rocky overhang west of the drilling site. Lifting her hand to shade her eyes, she saw a lone figure standing on the ridge. The features weren't clear from this distance, yet the black Stetson and arrogant stance were unmistakable. Dallas McCade.
Gillian lowered her hand and headed toward the platform. Every evening, for the past fourteen days, the formidable cowboy had stood there on the ridge. Watching. Always in the same spot. Sometimes with binoculars, sometimes not. But always watching.
Harold Johnston waited on the platform, a frown between his gray brows. He was inspecting a length of pipe joints ready to go down the hole.
"What's wrong?" Gillian asked, coming to stand beside him, looking at the pipe joints.
"I'm hoping it's nothing," Harold said, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his damp forehead. "Looks like it could be trouble. Then again, maybe not." He folded the handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket.
"This isn't what I wanted to show you," he said. "Let's walk over to the mud tanks. Something mighty peculiar is going on. Been a tool-pusher, going on twenty-five years now, and I've never seen such suspicious things happening on one job. Can't make heads nor tails of any of it."
Gillian had to run to catch up with the long-legged supervisor. Harold was in his mid-fifties, with gray hair, a silver mustache, and blue eyes that held just a suspicion of a twinkle. Those eyes were deceptive, though; when Harold Johnston barked orders, everyone jumped to obey.
"Do you think someone is deliberately undermining this project?" she asked, voicing her concern for the first time.
Harold stopped in his tracks and looked down at her. He stroked his mustache, his brows gathering in a frown again. "It sure looks that way, don't it, Mrs. Bankston?" He continued toward the mud tanks.
"But why?" Gillian asked, running again to keep up.
"Don't know. And when you see what I found this morning--Hell, I don't like this one damned bit."
He slowed his pace when they came to the mud tanks, walking purposefully to the big mud-mixing hopper. No one was in the immediate vicinity, the men still milling around as the shift change took place.
Gillian came up beside Harold as he stooped to pick up a bag of barite. He lifted it to the workbench near the hopper.
"Take a look at this and tell me what you think?" he said, stepping back.
Gillian peered inside the paper bag. It had been ripped open, the string hanging from one end, the top gaping wide. The powder gleamed brightly even in the shadow of the derrick. Gillian looked closer. Something about the whiteness appeared odd.
She glanced sideways at Harold. "Surely, it's not--?"
"Go ahead, taste it," he said.
Licking the tip of her index finger, Gillian touched the white powder. Rubbing the substance between her thumb and finger, the grains quickly dissolved. She hesitated only a second before tasting the sample.
"Oh, my God," she groaned. "How much of this sugar was poured in the hopper? And how long will it be before . . .?"
She couldn't finish the sentence. Gillian stared at the bag of sugar, a sick sinking sensation settling in the pit of her stomach. If sugar was mixed with the mud, it wouldn't gel correctly and could cause considerable damage. When mud was pumped into the hole, the clay mixture wouldn't be able to form the wall-cake that lined and stabilized the hole. Without the thin strong lining, the hole would cave in. It was a dangerous situation.
Harold shook his head. "None of it was poured in. Ben Dawson was on duty and he's one of the best. You'd think something like this would go undetected, but it didn't. Ben's always on his toes. He thought the barite looked funny. Too shiny. Barite is a dull whitish gray. He tasted it, just like you did. Then he started ripping sacks like crazy. He only found nine more with sugar. The bags had been emptied, filled, and restiched."
Gillian squatted on her haunches and inspected the bags on the ground near the hopper. "Who was responsible for bringing in this shipment of barite?"
Harold pushed back his hard hat, scratching his forehead. "Well, now, that's what I've been thinking and figuring all day long. The shipments come once a month, usually during the day shift. I looked up the records to see who was working that day. I've narrowed it down to two, possibly three, men."
Gillian couldn't believe this was happening. Looking closely at the bags of sugar, she could see where they'd been resewn with a fine black thread. The untampered bags of barite were sewn with coarse black twine.
"Who?" she asked.
"Jed Carmichael and Tom Raney worked the mud tanks that day."
Something in his voice caused Gillian to glance up at him. Slowly, she stood. "You don't think it was either of them, do you? Who's the third man?"
Harold stroked his mustache. "Allen Dunbar."
"Allen?" Gillian frowned. He was the last person she would have suspected. He was a middle-aged man with quiet manners and a shy reserve.
Gillian looked around. The evening shift was moving in. "Let's go back to my office. We can't talk here."
They walked in silence, breaking it only to call greetings to some of the roughnecks and derrick hands
starting the new shift.
Before she opened the door to the office trailer, Gillian glanced toward the rocky crag. There was no sign of Dallas McCade. Pushing the rancher from her mind, she opened the door and walked in. The cool blast from the air-conditioned office offered immediate relief from the hot summer sun.
"So, why do you think it's Allen?" she asked, removing her hard hat and sitting behind her desk.
Harold sat opposite, setting his hat on his lap and running his fingers through his gray hair. A frown settled deeply between his silver brows. "You asked me if someone was deliberately undermining this project. I've been here from day one, and from all the evidence and all that's gone wrong, I'd have to be a fool to think otherwise."
The Cowboy's Surrender Page 2
