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“What?” she asked, though she was pretty sure she knew what he was thinking.
B.J. was a healthy girl. She was never under the weather. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten puny enough to yak. This was a strange occurrence, sure, but it really was a sweltering day. Heat did strange things to people when it was as hot and dry as today and they’d skipped breakfast. She’d just pushed herself a little too hard. That was all.
“I was going to ask if you wanted to fly a freight load to Fort Worth, but—”
“I can do it,” she broke in. “Where’re the goods?”
Pop eyed her untrustingly for a moment. “You sure?”
“I’m good to go, Pop. You want me to get a doctor’s slip saying I’m healthy or what? I told you I was fine.”
“Don’t go gettin’ your panties in a bunch. I’m still your pappy, and that gives me the right to worry about you iffin’ I want to.”
B.J. would’ve rolled her eyes, but the look in her father’s gaze made her refrain. A bitter taste of regret filled her mouth. She wondered—not for the first time—if Jeb Gilmore had wanted a more girly girl for a daughter. From the rumors she’d heard, her mother had been one of those frilly types who liked lots of lace and ruffles. She wondered if Pop would be happier if he could see more of Dellie Gilmore in her.
Clearing her throat and straightening her shoulders, she held back from being too much like herself and politely said, “I’m feeling better than I did a few minutes ago. Whatever was in my system is out now. I’m sure I’m back to one hundred percent.”
Still studying her with those watery brown eyes of his, Pop picked up a Dixie cup and spit some of his tobacco into it. “The freight’s sitting in the southwest corner on two pallets. Make sure Buck helps you load it. They want it delivered by noon tomorrow.”
B.J. nodded solemnly. “I’ll have it there this evening,” she answered and started from the office to get back to work.
****
Straddling the neck of a broken oil well’s pump jack, Grady fumbled with a piece of baling wire he was using to twine around two hunks of steel to hold them together. Slick with his own sweat, his grip kept slipping. It played havoc on his patience.
His father had been steadily teaching him the rules of trade in order for Grady to one day take over the family business. Since he was the oldest and the only sibling out if his brother and two sisters even interested in oil, it was a given the company would be his some day
Rawlings Oil was the only petroleum field around Tommy Creek. They’d been in business since his grandfather Granger Rawlings had discovered a bubbling crude on his cattle ranch nearly fifty years ago. Since then, the entire herd had been sold, and the range was now covered with nodding donkey oil wells instead of cow patties.
Employing a good portion of the county, Rawlings Oil supplied jobs and commerce for hundreds of area residents. Rawlings was a big name in these parts, and being a Rawlings came with a load of responsibility.
Since the new guy Grady had hired on to help repair faulty equipment was afraid of heights, Grady found himself shimmying up the side of a steaming hot piece of grease-coated metal to fix a minor repair.
Since Amy’s death, he’d relished days like these, full of hard, manual labor. Focusing on his job and piling a bigger workload onto his shoulders had been something to keep his mind off. . .things. So he’d dived headfirst into finding the grimiest, hardest tasks for himself. But today, he couldn’t concentrate. His mind kept retreating back to the diner.
All he’d wanted was a quick breakfast and a cup of coffee. But no. . .he’d just had to listen to Ralph Smardo start a fight with B.J. Gilmore.
Skinny dipping.
Grady couldn’t picture it. Not that he wanted to picture it. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’d gone goddamned skinny dipping with Ralphie, The Junkyard, Smardo. Clenching his teeth, Grady grabbed a hold of both ends of the wire and gave a violent twist.
He told himself he shouldn’t be jealous. He shouldn’t even care. Ralph said it’d been years ago, so they’d probably had their fling when he was still married to Amy. But, damn it, the feeling of helpless rage still pounded through his blood. The thought of B.J. with anyone else made him want to break something.
That made no sense at all. He didn’t have any kind of claim on her. Hell, he hadn’t even talked to her since Houston. She could’ve been with a dozen guys in that time and she’d have every right to them. He’d deserted her in the hotel room, and he hadn’t talked to her once since—excluding that whole near-death experience on her plane. Then, he’d gone out of his way to avoid her when he’d seen her out and about.
In anyone’s book, that would signify the end for them.
Yet he still dreamed about her. He remembered what she smelled like, how her skin felt against his. He wanted the very essence of her coated to his mouth so every time he licked his lips, he could taste her.
If only he hadn’t gone to the damn diner for breakfast.
As he lost his grip on the wire once again, a bead of sweat dripped into his eyes. Growling out a curse, he slammed the palm of his hand against the metal neck on which he sat. “Damn it.”
“Need some help?”
Grady jumped clear out of his skin and twisted around. He hadn’t heard the truck pull up, but there was his father, approaching with a slow, loose-legged stride.
“I got it,” he muttered and used his dirt-caked sleeve to wipe at his face.
