The Trouble With Tomboys (11 page)

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. Bluck. 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.

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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?”

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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.

****

His father had been steadily teaching him the 84

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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 85

Linda Kage

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 86

The Trouble with Tomboys

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 moment. “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

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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.

“I’ll stop by and say hi on my way home,” he relented.

But that was it. He wouldn’t stay for a meal and allow both his parents to gang up on him as they tried to get a bead on how he was really dealing with his life these days.

“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’m not digressing again. I don’t need to see a doctor, and I don’t need any kind of medication. There’s no depression and no more insomnia. I’m fine.” Actually, he’d probably prefer the insomnia to the dreams he’d been having about a certain big-mouthed tomboy.

Everything gathered, he lifted his toolbox and started for his truck.

“I know you don’t like my pity, Grady,” Tucker said, falling into step beside him. “But you’re my son, and I can’t stand to see you this way.”

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Grady closed his eyes and fisted his hands

around the handle of the toolbox, wondering if B.J.

had been right in Houston. Did he bring on

everyone’s sympathy by acting so pitiful? “There’s nothing to be done about it, though,” he muttered.

Sometimes, he just couldn’t stop hurting.

“Yeah, well...doesn’t mean I have to like it,”

Tucker answered. “If there’s ever anything you need from me or your mother, we’ll be there—”

“I know,” Grady cut in with a reluctant smile.

He stopped and turned to face his father. “I know you’d die for me, if you had to. But you can’t live for me, Dad. I have to figure out how to do that myself.”

“That’s why this sucks so much,” Tucker

relented as his shoulders slumped. “Because I
can’t
live your life for you, can I? I can’t get you past this rough patch. God. This has to be the worst part of parenthood.”

Grady wouldn’t know. His child had been born dead, cut out of his wife with a knife.

He busied himself by setting his equipment in the bed of his truck. “I saw him, you know.”

Tucker frowned. “Saw who?”

“Bennett.” His son.

His dad sucked in a breath but didn’t respond.

Grady stared into the bed of the truck, assailed by memories.

“He was bloody and still, curled in the fetal position. The doctor and nurses were so busy trying to work on him and Amy, I don’t think they realized I was still in there, watching the cesarean.” Grady lifted his face and glanced over his shoulder at his dad. “He had a really thick head of hair...just like Tanner.” Though they would’ve only been cousins, the two boys probably would’ve looked like twins.

Tucker wiped at his face and quietly said, “God, Grady. I was wrong. I haven’t lived through the worst part of parenthood, have I?”

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Grady sent him a sad smile. He shook his head, thinking he shouldn’t have said anything. But he couldn’t seem to forget that flight to Houston when B.J. Gilmore had talked about Amy. When she’d told the story about Amy baking Leroy’s porn, he hadn’t felt like someone was cutting him in half. It made him wonder if maybe he was going to get through this after all.

But seeing his father’s sympathetic glance told him otherwise. The despair came rushing back, clogging his windpipe and making it hard to breathe.

He couldn’t understand why he’d been able to share an Amy-story with B.J., a woman he wasn’t all that close to, and he couldn’t bear to mention his son to his own father.

Maybe it was because B.J. hadn’t looked at him with pity or tried to find a way to fix his misery.

Instead, she’d opted to remember a happy time, and she’d actually made him smile over the recollection.

Grady hadn’t smiled from hearing Amy’s name since the day she’d died. But somehow B.J. had given him joy from a simple memory.

He wondered briefly if that was why it’d been so good to be inside her. She was the first person in two and a half years to look at him and see a man...not a widower.

In the blink of an eye, all the bitterness and anger he’d been feeling for the tomboy evaporated.