Bringing Up Baxter (Forever Friends, Book 3 of 4)

by Webb, Peggy

  What did he need a dog for, anyhow? Feedings and getting up in the middle of the night to let him outside. Worrying about the neighborhood cat scratching his eyes and anxious trips to the vet.

  The next thing you know he’d be looking for a sidecar for the Harley and a dog-sized motorcycle helmet.

  “I’ll just not go back,” he said. “That’s the thing. Let her sit over there with her carrots and her highfalutin words. I don’t need this garbage.”

  He stared at his boots and thought about being called absurd.

  “Caesar in a goat cart,” he muttered. The least he could do was go over there and prove her wrong.

  On the way out he grabbed a frayed towel out of his bag. Baxter had to have something to sleep on, didn’t he?

  o0o

  B. J. told herself she didn’t care whether he came back; she told herself she was putting on her prettiest rose-colored cotton shirt because she was wet and cold.

  She’d called him absurd, but she was the absurd one, primping for Crash as if she were a teenager on her first date. Just as she started stripping off her rosy blouse, Baxter jumped against her leg and barked.

  She refastened her blouse, then bent to pet him.

  “You’re right, Baxter. I have to wear something. Besides, he’ll be here any minute.”

  What was keeping him? He’d been gone long enough to change clothes a dozen times. Baxter grabbed the legs of her jeans and tugged, a not-so-subtle reminder that he had more important things to think about than her paranoia.

  “Of course he’s not coming back. Why should he?”

  She sat down and put the puppy in her lap. “Be glad you’re a man, Baxter.”

  Baxter gave her a look that showed more intelligence than some of the clients she’d defended.

  “That’s right, little fellow. No matter what folks tell you to the contrary, men still make the rules, and if we don’t bow and scrape and kowtow, we’re out in the cold with somebody half our age sitting in our warm spot.”

  “Talking to yourself, Philadelphia?”

  She’d been so busy talking to Baxter, she hadn’t noticed him slip into her tent. But there he was, twice as big as she’d remembered and four times as handsome. In a denim shirt unbuttoned to show off his chest and jeans tight enough to display his assets, he was what Maxie meant when she’d said, “There are some men you’d just like to lick all over. If you see one in the Smokies, don’t think; just do it.”

  B. J. held on to Baxter to keep from following Maxie’s advice.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I’m that kind of guy. I just sneak up on a woman, and before you know it...” He snapped his fingers. “Bam. She’s hooked. Just like that.”

  “Are you naturally this obnoxious, or do you have to work at it?”

  “All my talents are natural. Want to see some more of them?”

  “No. Just put the hot dog down and leave.”

  “Not a chance.”

  He reminded her of a panther when he moved, with all the big jungle cat’s grace and twice its predatory nature. The tent was small and he was big, but did he have to sit so close? His thighs rammed intimately against hers, and she had nowhere to move.

  Forget the electricity that jolted through her, she told herself. Forget that she couldn’t breathe. Forget that she wished he’d throw her onto her sleeping bag and have his wicked way with her.

  There, she’d admitted it. She didn’t want a Stephen who courted her with ginger flowers shipped all the way from Hawaii and with Godiva chocolates in a white satin box tied with gold ribbon. She wanted Tarzan with his Harley-sized equipment. She wanted a bawdy romp that would wipe every derogatory thing Stephen had ever said right out of her mind.

  Which just proved Maxie’s theory. She needed a break.

  “But not that kind,” she muttered.

  “Did you say something to me?” Crash asked.

  “I was talking to Baxter. He’s nibbling my legs.”

  “Now there’s a dog who knows a good thing.”

  She almost forgave Crash all his inflammatory remarks.

  “Did you bring something for him to eat?”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  He plucked the puppy from her lap and put it on his own. Then he pulled out a hot dog and fed Baxter, one tiny bite at a time. This could take the rest of the night, and she had no idea how she’d survive such extended close contact with her high moral standards intact.

  That is, if she had any moral standards left. She was beginning to have her doubts.

  “I can do that,” she said. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “And abandon Baxter? Do you want him to grow up feeling unloved?”

  He certainly wasn’t going to feel unloved the way Crash was pampering him. She’d never thought she would envy a dog. But there she was, sitting in a tent in the wilderness watching a big man’s hands gentling a small dog, and she wished her life were that simple: look helpless and have all your needs met.

  “He likes it,” Crash said, grinning at her.

  Who wouldn’t? Baxter would probably like dirt with Crash feeding it to him that way, stroking, caressing, praising.

  “That’s a good boy,” he said to the puppy. “Aren’t you smart? You know who loves you, don’t you, boy? That’s a big boy. You know who your pal is.”

  “Alienation of affection,” B. J. said.

  “What?”

  “After you’ve finished trying to win him away, he’ll never want to stay with me.”

  “Are you jealous... or envious?”

  She was furious at herself for being so transparent.

  “Envious of a dog? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  A big grin lit Crash’s face, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “Actually I was talking about me. I do have great dog-caring abilities, but hey, if you want to envy this poor little old helpless creature some tender loving care, that’s fine with me.”

  “I do not envy the dog.”

  “It kind of makes up for being called absurd,” he said.

  She was astonished that this man had a vulnerability, let alone that he would admit it. Though she was still raw from being spurned by Stephen, though she had learned some very bad lessons about men the hard way, she was not the kind of woman who took pleasure in hurting men, or anybody else for that matter.

  Her tongue was her armor, not a weapon.

  She reached out to him, intending merely to touch, to pat his arm or touch his hand or give him some other gesture that could be interpreted in no way except platonic. Instead he turned, she turned, and her hand landed on his cheek as gently as a butterfly. The lantern picked up the gold in his eyes, and they looked like stars.

  B.J. caught her breath. Both of them went perfectly still. The connection was tiny—the tips of her fingers against his cheek—and yet she felt it all the way down to her toes.

  “Philadelphia...”

  “You can call me Jane.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to remove her hand from his cheek.

  “Is that your name?”

  “My sister calls me that sometimes. When she wants to really get my attention.”

  His intense scrutiny made her shiver.

  “I really want to get your attention.”

  His voice was as soft as the rain that pattered against the roof of her tent. She was vaguely aware of movement—of him setting the dog aside, of the way he turned toward her, of his hands on her face.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “I’m not.”

  He shifted toward her, not so much a shifting of body as a shifting of soul. It was a subtle change that shone through his eyes. She knew then that he was going to kiss her, just as she knew that it would be the kind of kiss a woman never forgets, the kind that imprints on the heart as surely as it imprints on the mind.

  In that fraction of a second before his lips descended on hers, she had the option of staying or pulling away.
Reason told her to back off, but instinct told her to stay. Deep inside, bone deep where the soul dwells, she knew that Crash had something she needed, something she wanted.

  And so she waited, waited for the touch of his lips on hers, a touch so gentle, she might have dreamed it. She leaned into the kiss, melting bit by bit. His arms closed around her, and leaning against his chest she felt the rhythm of his heart, as fast and erratic as her own.

  The kiss was tender beyond imagining, lush and warm and full of all the things a woman dreams, so tender she almost cried. Outside her tent the rain pattered steadily against canvas, a hypnotic almost ethereal rhythm that blurred time and place. Cradled in Crash’s arms she felt cozy and warm and safe, far removed from the trials of everyday living.

  Her blood heated up and surged through her like a river of fire. She heard small animal sounds and didn’t know whether they came from Baxter or from her. Warning bells sounded, echoes from her past.

  Don’t let me make a fool of myself she thought, but she was already beyond reason, completely lost in the magic of the kiss.

  Did he feel the magic, experience the passion? She longed to know but would never ask, never in a million years. For once she was going to live for the moment, take what she could get and not worry about public opinion or consequences or tomorrow, least of all tomorrow.

  She was hungry, so hungry, and she hoarded the pleasure like a starving refugee who has stumbled upon a banquet. Tupelo was suddenly very far away, and tomorrow might never come.

  Crash released her, and they stared at each other, silent.

  If he spoiled the kiss with a smart remark she would hate him forever. She might even slap his face. She waited, scrutinizing him as closely as she did opposing lawyers in a courtroom.

  His face was a perfect blank, telling her nothing. She didn’t scuttle off like a scared chicken, but she shifted away from him in a businesslike manner that signaled she was as unchanged by the kiss as he.

  All good litigators were good actors, and that small moment was the high point of her acting career. Maxie would be proud of her.

  “It’s getting late,” he said.

  “Yes.” She faked a yawn. Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.

  “It’s about time to turn in.”

  He glanced at her sleeping bag in the corner. Was he expecting an invitation? That would be a cold day in hell.

  “I brought something for Baxter,” he added.

  “More food? I think he’s had enough.”

  Baxter was curled into a ball next to her sleeping bag, his head resting on her pillow. Crash handed her a frayed blue towel.

  “For his bed... unless you plan to share yours.”

  “I don’t share my bed,” she said.

  He lifted one eyebrow, and the look he gave her said the Crash she loved to hate was back in business.

  “That figures,” he said, grinning. “‘Night, Philadelphia. Sweet dreams.”

  “My dreams are never sweet; they’re all about winning.”

  He left, chuckling. She picked up the first thing she could find—a pair of rolled-up socks—and threw them at his retreating back. Baxter pressed himself against her legs, whining.

  She bent down and stroked his fur.

  “At least he let me have the last word,” she said.

  Chapter Five

  Crash always slept like a rock, especially when he was in the mountains. After a fitful night spent alternating between tossing and turning and peering out into the darkness to see what was happening at Philadelphia’s camp, he was grumpier than ten grizzlies. And furious at himself.

  “It was just a kiss,” he muttered.

  Now she had him talking to himself. He got even madder.

  He kicked the covers viciously and glared out at the approaching day. It was barely dawn. Nothing would be open yet, but he would ride until he found something, an all-night bar, a mom-and-pop diner, a truck stop, anything just as long as it provided him a refuge from the woman who had invaded his mountain.

  Shoot, he might even find another woman. That was the ticket. Somebody to make him forget a certain pair of lips that tasted like berries and cream.

  As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t leave things to chance; he would actively search. He’d never had any trouble before. There was no reason to expect failure today.

  He revved his Harley and flushed a covey of quail enjoying an early morning stroll in the nearby meadow.

  What he had meant to do was race off down the mountain without a backward glance. What he did was crane his neck in the direction of her camp. There was not a soul stirring, not even Baxter.

  Memories of the previous night washed over him. He’d kissed her the way a man kisses a woman he loves. It had been completely natural, without forethought or planning. Shoot, if he’d thought about it he’d never have done it at all.

  Philadelphia was armed and dangerous. Who’d have thought a woman with a mind like a steel trap and a tongue like a bee’s stinger could be so appealing? Especially to a man like him.

  He glared at her empty camp stool, at the Coleman stove still unused, at the silent tent.

  “Who needs a woman like that,” he said, then took off toward the rising sun with the wind at his back.

  o0o

  There’s no telling how late B.J. would have slept if Baxter hadn’t nudged her. His cold, wet nose interrupted her right in the midst of a dream about riding off into the sunset on a Harley. It was one of those dreams so vivid, it seemed real.

  “Good grief,” she said. “He’s got me dreaming of black leather. Next thing you know it will be whips and chains. I’ve got to get hold of myself.”

  Baxter wagged his tail and licked her hand. She laughed. It was great to have somebody who agreed with every word you said. Not only agreed, but thought you were wonderful for saying it.

  “I’m glad we’re of one accord. Now let’s see what I have that might tempt you.”

  She thought of having breakfast in her tent, but why come to the mountains if you didn’t plan to enjoy the mountain air?

  “Right, Baxter?”

  His tail wagged furiously, and he had the good sense to keep quiet about the real reason she was considering breakfast in the tent.

  She put on her pretty rose blouse.

  “It’s already wrinkled and I might as well get some use out of it before laundering,” she explained to her dog. “I don’t even plan to glance in the direction of his tent. Not even if a grizzly bear passes by.”

  Baxter followed her outside, and the first thing she did was glance at the adjoining campsite. She tried to help herself, but she just couldn’t. This thing Maxie’s books called animal magnetism was real. She wished she hadn’t pooh-poohed the idea when Maxie had told her. She was paying for her scathing remarks now.

  One quick glance, that’s all she’d taken. She tried to make herself not look again, but the effort was futile. She didn’t take just a quick glance this time; she got out her binoculars and searched the place.

  She’d die if he caught her at it. Fortunately, Crash was nowhere in sight. Or unfortunately, depending on the point of view.

  Of course, it was barely daylight, and he might not even be up yet, but his Harley was missing. A sure sign that Crash was not there.

  Telling herself the tingle she felt was relief and not regret, she got out an extra bowl for Baxter and then poured some cereal and milk. After breakfast she was going to have to find a store that sold puppy food.

  o0o

  The all-night diner was perched on the edge of the mountain, its blue neon sign proclaiming that they served the best biscuits in the Smokies and real honey right out of the beehive. Crash ordered enough food for two grown men, all the things that were supposed to be bad for him, fried country ham and biscuits dripping with real butter, scrambled eggs with cheese and grits floating in redeye gravy. Joseph would have a stroke.

  “I know you’re not concerned about such mundane things as weight and heart a
ttacks, but wait till you turn thirty,” Joseph had cautioned him for ten years. Then when Crash turned thirty, Joseph’s magic number became forty.

  Crash had nine more years to find out if his brother was right. Meantime, he planned to enjoy good food, and plenty of it. It was one of the small pleasures of life.

  The waitress was another. She was blond and petite and dimpled, with a ready smile and a cute little swing to her walk. His kind of woman.

  He flirted with her over coffee, and she flirted back when she brought his ham and eggs. Philadelphia crossed his mind only fleetingly.

  Things were looking up.

  o0o

  It occurred to B. J. that she didn’t have the first notion where to buy dog food. Furthermore, her only map showed the major highways in Tennessee, not the back roads and byways of this part of the Smokies.

  With Baxter riding shotgun, she drove to the main lodge. The road meandered through the wilderness, and for a while she thought she was lost. Then she saw the sign: Camp Adventure.

  She slammed on her brakes. “Good grief, if I’d known that was the name of this retreat, I’d never have let Maxie send in my money.”

  Baxter thumped his tail against the leather seat. “No wonder it attracts the likes of Tarzan and his big machine.” She parked her car in front of a concrete block building with a hand-painted sign that said Office.

  “The director is probably King Kong,” she told Baxter.

  Worse. He had the size of that giant primate but not the intelligence. After ten minutes of trying to extract a map and some information from him, B. J. was beginning to wonder how Camp Adventure survived.

  And then she found out. King Kong’s wife came into the office, her brown hair in a perfect French twist, her denim dress without a wrinkle, and her smile as welcome as a warm heater on a cold day. She patted her husband’s arm.

  “Honey, thanks for keeping things going for me. You’re wanted at the archery range.”

  “Bye-bye, Betty Boop.” He gave her a big kiss on the cheek, then lumbered out the door.

  The woman never lost her smile. “He calls me that, but he’s a good man, so I don’t mind. Now...” She took her place behind the desk. “How can I help you?”