“On that note I’m going to the shower,” she said.
She left her wet clothes on the floor and stood under the hot spray for a long time trying to sort out her feelings. When she got out and wrapped a towel around her body, she hadn’t figured out a single thing.
“Shut your eyes. I’m on the way to my room and my robe wasn’t in the bathroom,” she hollered.
“Not on your life,” he yelled back.
“Remember you are next,” she said.
His laughter followed her the four feet from the bathroom to her bedroom. She pulled underpants, a sleep shirt, and pajama bottoms from a dresser drawer, ran a brush through her wet hair, and checked her reflection in the mirror. No makeup and slicked back hair made her look like a drowned rat. Add baggy pajamas and a knit shirt with Betty Boop on the front and there was no way her kisses would shake a rocking chair much less a trailer house.
The wind was still roaring outside when she went back to the living room. Travis hadn’t moved an inch and was still dripping water. He shivered from his head all the way to his boots and she pointed to the bathroom. “Go now before you get pneumonia. I’ll make up the bed while you are gone and you can get under warm covers.”
Without a word he picked up his duffle bag and carried it to the bathroom. He didn’t hum that night as he showered, and when he came out he was quick to get under the quilts she’d piled onto the sofa bed.
“Don’t these things usually only last a few minutes?” he asked.
“I have no idea. Haven’t ever been in one. But I did look out while you were in the shower and the trailer is still standing. The trees are still whipping around but not like before. I think the worst of it passed us by.”
She sat down beside him with her legs pulled up under her. “Scared the bejesus out of me. Tinker told me about one that passed through here several years ago in the spring of the year and stripped the mesquite trees bare. Texas tornadoes aren’t something you mess with. I’m glad it didn’t pick up Amos’s trailer and set it down in Oklahoma. Now go to sleep. What time do you have to go to work tomorrow?”
“Noon. I’m on the noon to eight shift every day. Angel is an early riser so she opted to work from eight to four. That way one of us is there all day. I hope the storm is over by the time she goes to work.”
“She’ll be fine.” Cathy brushed a kiss across his forehead.
The Honky Tonk swayed just slightly and she smiled.
Chapter 8
“Man, am I glad to see you,” Angel said when Cathy opened the trailer door. “Desk, computer. Your password and ID is on that pad right there. Your set of keys is on the desk. Hard file cabinets are in the small bedroom. And Amos likes everything in hard copy. He’ll never trust a computer. Says they are nothing but eyes for the government to spy on us. So each day we print the day’s report at five o’clock in duplicate. Small bedroom has shelves. Put one there and leave one on the edge of the desk. Amos will pick it up. Sometimes they build up for a week before he gets here. I think that’s all. I just came in to show you where everything is and to give you a set of keys. Now, I’m off to Jezzy’s place. We’re so excited we could dance a jig in a pig trough!”
“Been a long time since I’ve heard that expression,” Cathy said.
Angel shoved her arms into the sleeves of her work jacket and waved as she went out the door. “Been a long time since I’ve been this excited!”
The trailer reminded her of the one that she’d grown up in back in Arkansas. A bar to the left separated the living room from the tiny kitchen which was barely big enough for a small wood table with four chairs around it. Beyond the kitchen was a hallway leading to an alcove for the washer and dryer, a bathroom, bedroom with the door open covered in shelving and file cabinets, and a closed door at the very end.
“Not enough room to cuss a cat without getting a hair in your mouth,” she muttered as she did the two-minute tour.
The bathroom still had the faint aroma of Stetson aftershave and Irish Spring soap. The washer was empty but the dryer was full of towels. One cup, plate, fork, knife, and spoon were in the dish drainer. An oak desk that had seen better days sat right in the middle of the living room floor, facing the door. The walls were bare and the windows covered with mini-blinds that had been raised to let as much light as possible into the small room.
Cathy sat down in a padded, adjustable chair, raised the seat to accommodate her long legs, pulled up the screen, and got started. Basically it was the same program she’d used at Green’s Oil Company in Mena, but there was no way she’d get all the work caught up in one afternoon. Maybe by the end of the week she’d have it manageable. Hopefully in two months Maggie wouldn’t come in to a complete mess.
A whoosh of cold air hit her in the face when the door opened. She looked up half expecting to see Angel, but it was a tall, dark-haired man.
“Hey, Maggie… you’re not Maggie,” he said.
“Maggie will be here in a couple of months. I’m filling in for her. I’m Cathy O’Dell. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Rocky, the tool pusher. I’m pullin’ my rig in and just stopped to tell Maggie… I guess to tell you… that I’ll be taking the back slot. Got the sign-in sheet ready?”
Cathy pulled a sheet up on the computer screen and printed it. Rocky dragged a chair from the kitchen to face the desk. He removed his coat and sat down while he signed for slot number twenty.
“So tell me about this Honky Tonk thing out there. What kind of place is it? Open only on weekends?” he asked.
“It’s open every night except Sunday. Monday night is oldies night. It’s got one of those old jukeboxes that still plays three songs for a quarter and has Waylon, Willie, Merle, and Hank Williams, senior not junior, on it. Rest of the week it’s usually music from the new jukebox,” she said.
Rocky was somewhere in his early thirties with dark hair and roving eyes that settled on Cathy’s breasts. He had wide muscular shoulders and hands that had seen their fair share of hard work. A thin white line down one cheek marked an old scar and Cathy wondered if it’d happened on the rig or in a barroom brawl.
“They don’t ever have live bands? You been there?” Rocky asked.
“I own it and there’s no live music. You want something live, go on up the road to the Trio Club,” Cathy said.
“Why are you working here?” Rocky asked incredulously.
“Amos needed someone and I qualified.”
“Where’s Travis?”
“Out at the rig, I suppose. Only time he’s got to report to me is Friday and Saturday night,” she said.
“Why then?”
“Because those are the nights he’s going to help me bartend.”
Rocky’s face fell apart when he laughed. “The Travis Henry. The almighty smart petroleum engineer of the century is going to work in a bar. Man, I’ll be there Friday night just to see that sight.”
Cathy slid the sheet to one side of her desk. “Why do you want the back parking slot?”
“Noise level. I work days so I get to sleep nights. I saw the Honky Tonk. I want as far away from the noise as possible. And the whole thing is on first come, first served basis with Amos. I get here first every time so I can have my choice. Besides, back that far I might be able to catch a glimpse of a deer every so often. It’s not often we get to park in places like this,” he answered.
The door opened again. “Mornin’. I’m Bart, the driller. I want a parking spot in the middle. Fast Rocky here the only one who’s beat me?”
Cathy nodded and handed him the sign-in sheet. Bart was somewhere between thirty and forty, had a mop of red hair and freckles all over his round face. He peeled off his coat and pulled up a chair next to Rocky on the other side of the desk. If they were going to sit around jawing all day, Cathy would never be caught up by the end of the week.
“This is Cathy O’Dell. She’s temping for Maggie and she owns that Honky Tonk. And you’ll never believe it, but Travis Henry is going to wo
rk for her Friday and Saturday nights,” Rocky said.
“The Travis Henry? Well, hot damn. I’ll be there on Friday night. Got any good lookin’ women hangin’ around?” Bart asked.
“Sometimes,” Cathy said.
Bart picked up the sheet and signed for slot three. “Hey, this could be the best job we’ve had in a while. Don’t even need a designated driver to get us home.”
“Thought you wanted a middle one,” Cathy said.
“Changed my mind. Closer the trailer, less I have to walk,” Bart said.
The next time the door opened a short, blond, brown-eyed man entered the crowded room. “Did y’all see that parking lot out there? Reckon Amos made a deal with the owner of that beer joint? Now this is what I call a real job.”
Rocky pointed at the paper on the desk. “Parking slots are out back and this is Cathy,” Rocky said. “She’s temping for Maggie and she owns that beer joint. Choose a place and we’ll get our rigs out of the way. The rest of the crew will be here in the next hour or so. We’re supposed to be at the drilling site by two to look things over. Tomorrow we start putting it together.”
“Mornin’, Cathy. I’m Tilman Greeson.”
She handed him the sign-in sheet and he chose the trailer space right beside Rocky. She’d thought she’d have the office to herself all afternoon with nothing but a computer and paperwork. But it sure seemed like the men were going to use the trailer for a gossip shack.
“Okay, guys, let’s get set up. Roughnecks and derrick hands will be here soon. What time does that beer joint open?” Rocky asked.
“Eight sharp. Shuts down at two,” Cathy said.
“Friday and Saturday?” Tilman asked.
“Every night but Sunday,” Cathy said.
“Well, hot damn,” Tilman said.
“But you won’t get to see Travis Henry behind the bar because he’s only helping on Friday and Saturday and you work most nights.” Rocky said.
Tilman followed them out. “Don’t matter if I see him or not. I’m off on Thursday nights and it’ll be open so I can at least see what’s going on.”
She was entering invoice numbers and amounts on the debit spread sheet when the door opened again. She didn’t even look up but pointed toward the sign-in sheet.
“I don’t reckon I’ll be hookin’ up a trailer. I came by for the WHMIS and the Second Line BOP reports to be sure we are in total compliance,” Travis said. Her hair had been set free from her usual ponytail holder and flowed to her shoulders. Her sweater was the same steely blue as her eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her face.
She finished putting in the last invoice and pulled up a screen tagged safety and regulatory details. A touch of the keypad and the printer spit out the two reports he asked for. She handed them to him, careful not to touch his fingertips.
“Anything else?” she asked.
He put the chairs back around the kitchen table and poured a cup of coffee from the percolator that she hadn’t even noticed. “Want coffee? Did you find the ice cream?” He invented a reason to stay a while longer.
“Didn’t look. Haven’t had time. Would love coffee, but I’ll get it,” she answered.
She wound her way around the desk, the kitchen table, and to the cabinet. She brushed against his hip and mumbled that she was sorry. The next minute he had his fist on her chin and his eyes were looking into hers with a dreamy expression. He slowly leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips. She put an arm around his neck and tangled her fingers into his hair.
He pushed his luck with the next one, kissing her hard and passionately, letting it linger on and on as their tongues did a mating dance. Cathy kissed back. She tasted coffee, cold wind, and desire. The bones melted in her knees and for the first time in her life she actually felt faint. Just before the kiss ended she had the fleeting idea that she might swoon.
Travis hugged her tightly to his chest for a few minutes, listening to the rapid beating of her heart echoing his. “I’ve got to go back to work. See you tonight at the Honky Tonk.” In four easy strides he was out the front door and gone.
Cathy touched her burning lips. “Holy shit! It happens every time he kisses me.”
* * *
That evening Travis weaved among the hats and boots to the bar. Ladies bumped into him on purpose and smiled or winked when they had his attention. Men accidentally collided with him and quickly begged his pardon. The place was packed. Tables were staked out with beer bottles and coats hanging on the back of chairs. Both pool tables were in use with dollar bills out to pay for the privilege to play the winners. Hank Williams was singing about setting the woods on fire. From outside the joint it sounded like there was a live band playing and the singer was a ringer for Hank senior.
One fellow gave up his bar stool when a woman in a short tailed dress and lots of gold jewelry asked him if he wanted to dance. Travis quickly claimed it, got Cathy’s attention, and mouthed that he wanted a beer. She held up a finger and finished dumping ice around six longneck bottles of Coors in a bucket, then picked up a pint jar and filled it with draw beer.
Mickey Gilley’s “Bring It on Home to Me” invited a different kind of dancing. The women did a glorified bump and grind that looked like they needed a pole, a stage, and a little less clothing. Travis pictured Cathy dancing like that in one of those strapless tops that stopped above the belly button and hip slung jeans.
She set the beer in front of him. “Here you go.”
Her voice startled him back into reality. “Thanks. Busy night, ain’t it?”
“I don’t know where they all came from,” Cathy said breathlessly.
Larissa leaned in between Travis and the cowboy sitting next to him. “Need some help? You look run ragged.”
Cathy nodded. “Ever done any bartending?”
“I’ll help,” Travis offered.
“I’ll take Larissa,” Cathy said.
Travis locked gazes with her. “Why?”
“Because I have to pay you with five days a week in the oil office to get you to help on Friday and Saturday nights. I can’t afford your price.” She smiled.
He winked. “I might make a deal that didn’t involve the oil office.”
Cathy blinked and looked away. A quick vision of how she’d pay him didn’t do a thing to stop her breathlessness. The infatuation was about to drive her as crazy as a drunk toad frog.
Larissa slapped Travis on the shoulder. “Don’t be flirting while she’s busy, cowboy. How do I get back there? Do I have to crawl over the bar?” She wore tight designer jeans and a red knit shirt with a cutout at the neckline. Big red earring hoops showed when she tucked her hair behind her ears.
Cathy pointed. “Through the swinging door at the end of the bar.”
Larissa wasted no time taking a place behind the beer machine and drawing beers while Cathy took orders for mixed drinks.
“I’m hurt,” Travis teased.
“Oh, hush and drink your beer. Go talk Merle into a game of eight ball,” Cathy said.
“She’s playin’ with Clark,” Travis said.
A fast song by Emmylou Harris cleared out the bar stools and put almost everyone in the beer joint on the dance floor for a line dance. The way they were moving reminded Travis of a can of wiggling fishing worms, but he would gladly be out there on the floor with Cathy if she’d dance with him. He could imagine her arms wrapped up around his neck and that cute little fanny moving seductively against him at belt buckle level.
“Where’d they all come from?” Travis asked.
“Who knows? Maybe they heard about the oil men. I swear something put the word out and they don’t even seem to care that this is oldies night. I’ve never had a night like this, not even New Year’s Eve and that night was a good one.”
“I need two pitchers of piña coladas,” a young woman shouted above Emmylou’s voice. “I love this music. It’s what my momma played the whole time I was growing up. You play this all the time?”
“Only on Mondays.” Cathy filled the order and set them on a tray with empty jars for the woman.
“What’s on the other nights?”
“The new stuff,” Larissa answered. “But it’s just as good. Come on back tomorrow and see which you like best.”
“You can bet on it.”
“Where y’all from?” Larissa asked.
“My group is from Fort Worth,” she said.
“We been to everything over there and besides, we got this friend named Mindy who said this was a neat place. She was right.”
Don Williams’s voice said that he wouldn’t want to live if she didn’t love him.
“Ever have someone in your life you would die for?” Larissa asked.
“Nope,” Cathy said. “Where’d you learn to bartend? Please tell me one more time that you aren’t here to try to buy this place for Hayes Radner.”
Larissa filled six quarts and set them on a tray, collected the money, and made change. “One more time and that’s it. I’m not here to buy your beer joint. I moved to Mingus because I wanted to live here. And you are changing the subject. Anyone can pull a lever and fill up a fruit jar with beer. How old are you, Cathy?”
“Twenty-eight.” Cathy started two more blenders of piña coladas.
“And you never loved anyone enough that you wouldn’t want to live without them?”
“Ain’t no one in this world that I’d want to die for,” Cathy answered.
“Looks like we’ve got something in common. I’ve got two years on you in age, but neither one of us has been led down the daisy path, have we?”
“I didn’t say that. The daisy path and I are very well acquainted. That’s why I wouldn’t die for a man. Basically, they’re all alike, aren’t they? Ever hear that old saying about burn me once, shame on you. Burn me twice and shame on me. Well, that’s the story of my life. I ain’t livin’ a ‘shame on me’ life.”
Larissa kept filling jars, icing down beer in buckets, and making change. “Someday we’ll have to discuss that when we can sit down and not yell over the music and people.”
Hell, Yeah Page 10
