The Trouble With Tomboys Page 8

  Ralphie pulled his truck alongside her plane, his forearm hanging out the opened window and his big, dopey face drooped in mute apology. In the bed of his truck were the four tires she’d won in the poker game that suddenly felt like years ago.

  “B.J.,” he said solemnly as he cut the engine and exited the truck.

  She slipped a grease rag from her back pocket and wiped off her hands as she followed him to his tailgate. Once he had it opened, he turned to her and tightened his face with regret.

  “I’m real sorry,” he said, kicking at a pebble on the ground. “’Bout what I did at the café. I shouldn’t of—”

  “Hell, it’s no big deal,” she grumbled, giving up her dirty hands for hopeless and stuffing the rag back into her pocket. “I was just in a mood. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Ralphie didn’t answer. He merely lifted his face, squinted at her since the sun was in his eyes and said, “Well, I’m sorry anyhow. I had no call to start that kind of tale about us. True or not.”

  He kicked at the rock again. “I shoulda known better. And you were right. Nan’s already done heard about it and thinks I cheated on her.”

  “Well,” B.J. answered. She didn’t want to be mean and say, that’s what you get for opening your pie hole, you big idiot, but she was tempted.

  “Anyhow, I brought you them tires you won.” He motioned lamely toward them with limp fingers.

  B.J. nodded and stared at the set for a second. “Thanks,” she said. Then with a sigh, she hopped into the bed and started to roll them out.

  Ralphie lurched into action to give her a hand. “I went ahead and kept the wheels on,” he explained. “In case you want them too.”

  “They didn’t get bent when Rick Hopper wrecked?” she asked, surprised.

  Ralphie scratched at his chin. “Don’t seem to be.”

  “Well, then. . .thanks.” He must be damn sorry if he was going to give her the wheels too. That, or his problems with Nan were dour.

  Once the set was rolled out and piled on the ground, Ralphie wiped sweat out of his eyes and glanced around. “Where’s your truck? I’ll get started putting these on right now.”

  B.J. felt herself soften, unable to make him suffer anymore. “I’ll see to that,” she said. “You didn’t even have to do this much, Ralphie. Thanks.”

  He nodded morosely.

  “And. . .” She stalled for a moment before offering the next suggestion, “if you want, I’ll call Nan and try to smooth things out with her. Let her know she has nothing to worry about from me.”

  Ralphie jerked his face up, his cow eyes hopeful. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. Now get out of here before someone spots your rig and reports back to her, saying we’re doing the dirty mambo in the back of my plane as we speak.”

  Eyes flaring with panic, Ralphie jumped toward his truck. “Damn, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  B.J. wasn’t surprised.

  He shimmied himself behind the wheel and slammed his door. After starting the engine, he glanced at her once with worry. “You swear you’re going to call her?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Smardo, just get outta here already. I got it under control.”

  “Thanks, B.J.” He lifted his hand in farewell even as he put the engine into gear. Starting to roll away, he called, “You’re a real pal.”

  B.J. sighed as she watched him book it out of there. The poor man was pitiful, absolutely hopeless. Setting her hands on her hips, she studied the pile of tires and couldn’t help but grin. At least she’d gotten something profitable out of the deal.

  Wiping sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, she got to work, first lugging each tire back to the hangar, then piling them in the corner.

  She might be slender, but B.J. wasn’t a puny stick by any means. By the time she returned to her plane to retrieve the last tire, though, she’d run full out of steam. Sweat pouring, stomach rolling, she dropped the tire by her feet and held it still as it bounced and tried to roll away.

  Bent over, she sucked air through her gritted teeth and willed the nausea to pass. It didn’t, only working steadily up her throat and making her think she was going to urp all over the tarmac. Heat reflected off the glossy black surface, and suddenly, she wondered if she was going to pass out instead.

  Closing her eyes, she counted to ten until both the dizziness and queasy stomach settled. Then she straightened and groaned as she lifted the tire again and hauled it in to rest with the others. She was so wiped out, she didn’t have the energy to return to her plane.

  Slumping toward the corner office, she tried to remember what she’d eaten for breakfast. When she recalled the whole diner visit and how she’d completely deserted her bacon and eggs because of Grady and Ralphie, she sighed.

  There was her problem right there. She was starving. Hot and starving.

  Once inside the stifling office, B.J. moved immediately to the water cooler and poured herself a drink. She went and stood in front of the single oscillating fan as she guzzled. When only a swallow was left, she upended the rest of the cup over her head and delighted in the cool wetness trickling down her face and neck.

  “Ahh.” She sighed, closing her eyes and spreading her arms wide until the hot air from the fan lifted the back of her shirt and dried her sweaty skin. “Much better.”

  Crumbling the paper cup, she tossed it in the trash and started for the phone. After looking up the number, she dialed Nan’s house.

  Chapter Seven

  “You got a lot of nerve calling me,” Nan Lundy answered the phone three rings later.

  At the sound of the woman’s righteous indignation, B.J. sighed. Yep, she had her work cut out for her here. “Nan, listen—”

  “No, you listen to me, hussy. I don’t care how much you want my Ralphie—”

  “Oh, please. I don’t want—”

  “You can’t have him, y’hear? That’s my man, so keep your damn paws off.”

  “Your man?” B.J. snorted. “I thought you said he was boring?”

  “I. . . I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Well, now, maybe you did,” B.J. said, changing her tune. Nan wasn’t going to listen to a word she said unless she played her cards right. So B.J. held her breath and said, “If you don’t appreciate your man the way you should, I just might snag him when you’re not looking.”

  Even as she spoke, she wrinkled her nose at the very idea.

  Nan gasped. “Why, you dirty little—”

  “I think I can show Smardo a real good time,” B.J. went on, cringing at the lie and trying not to gag before continuing. “He did just fine a few years ago when we went swimming in Eden’s Watering Hole. So, I guess I wouldn’t much mind hooking up with him again.”

  “In your dreams, Gilmore.”

  “If you keep telling him it’s over between the two of you, it might just be in my reality.” Her stomach gave a lurch of pure revulsion, and she swallowed back rising bile.

  “It’s. . .it’s not over between Ralphie and me.” Nan sounded desperate. Worried. “What’re you talking about? What did he tell you?”

  B.J. grinned, but managed to sound spiteful when she answered, “He said you wouldn’t talk to him. Said you think he’s cheating on you, and you have no faith in him.”

  “I never said—”

  “So, the way I see it, he’s fair game.”

  “He is not!” Nan fairly screamed. “You stay away from him. He’s mine.”

  “Then claim him as yours and quit giving him the silent treatment, or I will steal him, Lundy. You just watch me.”

  When Nan slammed the phone in her ear, B.J. smiled.

  “Score!” she called and fisted a hand to pump the air with it. “That ought to do the trick.” Satisfied with the way she’d handled the call, she brushed her palms against her thighs.

  Not that she understood what Nan wanted with a big lug like Smardo anyway. Nor did she see how Nan was in any way worried B.J. would want to steal him. Bl
uck. The whole idea of ever kissing Ralphie again put a nasty taste in her mouth. In fact, it made her feel sick to her stomach all over again.

  Realizing she wasn’t going to hold the puke at bay any longer, she lunged toward the bathroom, pushed up the seat of the toilet and bent over it, losing everything she’d eaten since yesterday. Her roiling gut hurt so bad, she fell to her knees and clutched the sides of the porcelain god, not even worried about how nasty the floor was or how many times her brothers and Pop had no doubt missed their aim.

  Sweat beaded her brow and upper lip by the time her stomach had wrung itself empty. Groaning, she closed her eyes and flushed, spitting out the sulfuric taste of rotten egg in her mouth. She staggered to her feet, reaching for the wall when dizziness assailed her.

  Lord have mercy, she felt gross. She wanted to go home and take a nice long shower, then change into her jammies and sleep for the next week.

  But as she stepped from the bathroom, wiping dust and grit from the back of her clammy neck, she spotted her father seated at the office desk with his feet propped up, resting on a pile of papers. She paused and warily eyed the way he ran his finger over his bushy mustache.

  “Pop,” she greeted.

  “You just ill in there?” he asked, nodding his head toward the bathroom.

  “Yep,” she answered. She didn’t want him to know the thought of sleeping with Ralphie Smardo made her literally sick to her stomach, so she added, “Heat’s really getting to me today.”

  She moved to the water cooler and poured herself another drink. As she downed a third cupful, she glanced at him, apprehensive about the fact he was studying her with the strangest expression.

  “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.

  “Here, take my gloves,” Tucker Rawlings said from the ground where he’d stopped just below where Grady was working.

  “I just took mine off,” Grady answered. “I can’t get a hold of anything with them in the way. But my hands are so slick, I can’t get a good grip now, either. And I lost my pliers somewhere in the north field about an hour ago.”

  “I got an extra pair in my truck,” Tucker offered.

  As his dad started back to his rig, Grady began to mutter under his breath. The day had been going just fine until he’d decided to stop at the diner on his way to work. “I should’ve just starved,” he muttered to himself.

  “What’s that?”

  Giving another startled lurch, Grady realized his father had returned. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

  Tucker winced against the sunlight and studied him for a mo
ment. “You doing okay today?”

  Not quite meeting Tucker’s gaze, Grady answered, “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You seem. . .distracted.”

  Grady ignored him a minute as he once again tried to twist the two pieces together with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m fine,” he hissed and then cursed again as his thumb slid off and the sharp end of the wire stabbed him in the palm.

  “I’m fine,” he snapped once again when Tucker made a move to climb the side of the oil well and check his wound. His father stopped in his tracks and scowled.

  “You’re bleeding. I can see it from here.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Take the pliers, will you?” Tucker held them up.

  Grady wrapped one arm around the neck of the pump and stretched down to grasp the tool. When his fingers wrapped around it, he said, “Thanks.”

  Tucker nodded quietly and shoved his hands into his pockets as he watched Grady deftly make a twisty tie out of the thick metal cord.

  “Want to come to supper tonight?”

  Grady nearly winced as he shook his head. “No, thanks. I. . .” He faltered when he couldn’t think up an excuse why except that he just didn’t want to. So he settled with another, “No, thanks.”

  His father looked a little too sympathetic for his comfort, and he wanted to escape. . .fast. Finishing his task, he handed the pliers back and wiped his hands on his jeans before he started to shimmy his way back toward earth. After descending four feet, he let go of the beam and jumped down the rest of the way.

  “Your mother was saying just this morning how she hasn’t seen you in a while,” Tucker said, hovering until both of Grady’s feet were firmly planted on the ground.

  Letting out a breath, Grady leaned over and started collecting all the spare parts and tools he had accumulated around the base of the pump jack.