The Widow and the Wildcatter: A Loveswept Classic Romance (7 page)

Joni hovered in the doorway as nervous as a squirrel’s tail, while they gave her the once-over.

Her dress, a voile bouquet of lavender and blue, recaptured the romantic spirit of a bygone era. A lacy collar adorned the jewel neckline in front, then followed it on around to a plunging V-back. The slim self belt cinched her wisp of a waist, while the circle skirt swirled graciously to her shapely calves.

In keeping with Chance’s request, she’d left her hair swinging free in a fiery cascade. And on her feet were the strappy white sandals he’d seen before.

“Whistle me ‘Dixie’!” Grandpa exclaimed, laying his winning hand of cards aside. “Don’t you look like summer’s just around the corner.”

Chance slapped his loser’s quarter on the table and smiled. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Not until her lungs began to hurt did Joni realize she’d forgotten to breathe. Drawing in a deep
gulp of air, she looked at Chance. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Grandpa scratched his sagging jaw. “Haven’t I seen that dress somewhere before?”

“It belonged to Grandma.” Joni had found it in the cedar chest in the attic when she’d gone up there to get the recipe card. She’d fallen in love with it on the spot. Perfectly preserved in blue tissue paper, it had needed only a few tucks in the bodice to make it fit her to a T.

Sadness tugged his face into strange folds. “Now I remember … Ruthann was wearing it the night that I proposed to her.”

A prickle of guilt traced through Joni’s veins. “If you’d rather I not wear it, just say so.”

“Wear it, and anything else of hers you want, in good health, darlin’.” His voice crackled like a dry leaf. “I think she’d be pleased as punch to know you’re enjoying it.”

“Thank you, Grandpa.” Joni crossed to the kitchen table and kissed his wrinkled cheek.

He cleared his throat and picked up the playing cards. “Go on now, the both of you, and have fun.”

“Sorry I woke you earlier,” Chance said as he stood.

The old man shrugged. “I’ve got an eternity to sleep.”

Chance gripped his shoulder with a gentle hand. “Skinny should be here in a few minutes.”

Grandpa began stacking the deck, his milky blue eyes gleaming expectantly. “I’ll be watching for him.”

After extracting the old cardsharp’s promise that he wouldn’t take the young roughneck for too many quarters, Chance led Joni out to his car, a ’56 Thunderbird convertible he’d restored to mint condition. Its hand-rubbed chrome stood out in shiny relief against its Fiesta Red body.

“Do you want me to put the top up?” he asked as he held the passenger door open for her.

“Not really.” She tipped her head back and shook it. “I’ve never ridden in a convertible before.”

Chance got in on the driver’s side, his eyes crinkling in appreciation of the entrancing portrait she made in the brief flare of the floor light. “There’s a scarf in the glove compartment if it gets too windy for you.”

Joni kept her face to the night sky, telling herself it was ridiculous to feel jealous of all those other women who might have taken him up on the offer. One date, and she was ready to hogtie the guy! “I love the wind.”

He inserted the key in the ignition. But instead of turning the engine on, he turned to her. “C’mere.”

She rolled her head sideways in surprise. “What?”

He slid his right arm along the back of the seat and wrapped a wayward strand of her silky hair around his finger, pulling on it playfully. “No damn doorhuggers allowed in my car.”

“You mean you want me to—”

“Haul your buns over here.”

“But—”

“No buts, just buns.”

“That’s bad,” she groaned, scooching over to sit hip to hip beside him.

“That’s better,” he declared, releasing her only long enough to start the engine and shift gears before draping his arm around her shoulders again.

Joni gave directions to the crossroads and Chance steered the convertible onto the highway, controlling it with one hand as well as most drivers control their cars with two.

The wind wreaked havoc with their hair and made conversation impossible. But each was so mindful of the other’s presence, words would have been difficult to come by.

Chance kept his eyes on the road, but it was all he could do to keep his free hand from straying to her small breast, his fingers from strumming her slender neck. He wanted to find out for himself if that sweet mound of flesh felt as firm as it looked, if her skin was as soft and satiny as he imagined it … all over.

Joni sat primly, hands folded in her lap and knees together, but her thoughts ran wild and free. Every time he took a curve, causing her to lean closer to him, she wondered what it would be like to have that muscular torso crushing her into the mattress. Whenever the wind whipped her freshly shampooed hair across her eyes, she remembered the luscious curly hair on his chest.

The air smelled of life in all its glory. Roadside wildflowers filled the highway with their heady scent. The moon topped redbuds and dogwoods in full bloom.

Spring was right in the middle of resurrecting flora and feeling, while Joni and Chance were completing a cycle begun by their grandfathers. Once he hit pay dirt, he’d pack up and leave. She knew that as well as she knew her own name. And she wondered what sort of winter would follow on the heels of his departure.

“We must be getting close,” Chance said, his thigh muscles rippling under his jeans as he began applying the brakes. “I hear music.”

Joni heard it too. She forced herself to ignore his leg rubbing against hers and looked straight ahead. “It’s just around the bend. Turn left at the service road and follow it until you get to the circle of headlights.”

Back when cattle was king and railroad was queen, the crossroads had been an important link to the outside world. Ranchers had come from miles around, bringing their livestock to be loaded and shipped all over the country. The low three-toned wail of the train whistle had carried the guarantee of prime beef raised by hardworking individuals rather than heartless corporations.

Nowadays, the crossroads sat empty and useless, abandoned in the name of progress. Cattle trucks and tankers did their
yeeowwing
on concrete instead of on cracked asphalt. Tourists bypassed dust bowl museums in favor of Disneyland, and even the farmers found it more convenient to use the highway.

But every Saturday night, weather permitting, everybody and his uncle gathered at the crossroads, circling their pickups as their pioneer ancestors
had circled their wagons. Campfires had given way to headlights and fiddles to truck radios, but the people still did their dancing under the stars.

Chance drove around in search of a parking place, finally finding one between a rebuilt El Camino and a rusting Ford Ranchero. “For a county that’s in the throes of a depression, they sure turn out a happy-go-lucky crowd.”

Joni experienced a flash of regret when he released her to cut the engine, a reaction she quickly quelled. Needing the space, she slid back over to the passenger side. “It’s fun and it’s free.”

“What more could a body want?” He left his headlights on and tuned his radio to the same country music station that everyone else was tuned to.

“A hairbrush,” she remarked wryly, trying to fingercomb her hopelessly wind-tangled hair.

“In the glove compartment,” he directed her, fiddling with the volume knob on the dashboard.

“Thanks, but …” She wasn’t too keen on the idea of using someone else’s hairbrush.

“Don’t worry,” he said perceptively, “it’s yours.”

She glanced at his dark profile against the glow of the other headlights. “Mine?”

“When I was helping Grandpa in the downstairs bathroom, I saw it sitting on the shelf.” He sat back and gave her that lazy grin that never failed to jump-start her heart. “I figured you’d refuse the scarf, so while Diamond Jim Brady was stacking the deck, I stuck your hairbrush in the glove compartment.”

“I see.” She pasted on a bright smile and got her brush out, but the thought of him handling her personal things made her insides feel like taffy melting in the sun.

“Here.” Chance reached over and took the hairbrush from her unresisting fingers. “Let me.”

Joni started to refuse, but the firm set of his jaw told her that he would brook no argument. She presented him her back, her pulses thrumming in time to the three-chord country song rising and falling and filling the night.

One long, slow stroke and she knew she was lost. He seemed to know it, too, as he brought the brush back up to the crown of her head and pulled it down with enough pressure to disentangle the heavy, snarled strands but not enough to cause her pain.

She’d never realized such a simple act could also be so stimulating. He touched her nowhere else, yet she felt the repeated tug of the bristles from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

“You have beautiful hair.” He lifted it and sifted it through his fingers, letting it fall back to her narrow shoulders like spun cinnabar.

She nodded her thanks, not trusting her voice.

He set the brush on the dashboard and took hold of her upper arm. “Turn around.”

Against her better judgment she turned.

The music on the radio picked up a beat, as did her heart when his fingers captured her jaw.

“No, Chance.” She raised her hands to his shoulders, wanting both to push him away and pull him closer.

“Yes, Joni.” He kissed each corner of her lips and then traced the trembling line between them with the tip of his tongue.

She shut down her mind and parted her lips, surrendering to the power and the persuasion of a desire that had been too long denied. He matched his mouth to hers, a perfect fit, and seared her soul with a tongue of fire.

The ashes of emotion that she’d given up for dead flared to life, and she gloried in the blaze. But when the kiss ended and they drew apart, she knew it couldn’t happen again without her getting badly burned.

Chance dropped his thumb and middle finger to the pulse points just below her jaw, circling them slowly, as if magnetizing her blood to follow the movements of his hand. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day you came to the drilling site.”

Joni pulled back in a panic, her hands clutching his, stopping those clever fingers before they robbed her of the will to resist. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asked gently.

She released his hands and scrambled back to the passenger side. “Don’t give me something to regret when you’re gone.”

He reached to bring her back. “How about something to remember?”

“I remember too much as it is.” Her softly worded reply stilled him as effectively as a siren’s blast.

A somebody-done-somebody-wrong song came over the radio as Chance retracted his hand and
studied her, huddled miserably against her door. He understood then. That bastard she’d been married to had a long reach.

Swearing roughly, he got out of the convertible and cut around to open her door. “Get out.”

It cost Joni a great deal of courage to meet his eyes, but meet them she did. “You have every right to be angry—”

“You’re damn right I do.” He slammed her door so hard, it rocked the car on impact.

“If you’d rather I find another ride—”

“I brought you; I’ll take you home.”

Guiltily, she glanced away. “Please believe me, I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“Not consciously, perhaps.” He looked at her left hand, now clenched in a fist, fighting the urge to yank the ring off her finger and free her from the past. “But subconsciously, you wanted me to make love to you.”

Joni jerked her head up in shock, but kept her voice down so the dancers wouldn’t overhear. “That’s a lie!”

“Is it?” Chance lowered his face close to her. “Then why did you get all dolled up tonight? And why were you practically sitting in my lap—”

“You’re the one who insisted I sit there.”

“You sure as hell didn’t argue about it.”

It all sounded so damnably true that she felt sick to her stomach, but still, she scoffed. “You’re crazy.”

He swore beneath his breath. “I’m crazy, all right. Crazy for wanting a woman who’s married to a friggin’ ghost.”

Joni reeled as if he’d slapped her. Before she could respond, he spun on his heel and started toward the circle of headlights. Acting purely on instinct, she ran after him and grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?”

Chance paused only long enough to shake off her frantic hand. “Since there aren’t any cold showers out here, I’m going to find a cold beer.”

Loretta West was dressed to the cleavage in a slingshot of white sundress that played up her palomino paleness. Now, sitting in one of the folding chairs at the edge of the circle, she nudged Joni with her elbow. “Sweet Mother Macree, but your wildcatter sure is smooth.”

Joni glanced at Chance, dancing with a brunette in red Wranglers and boots, then back at Loretta. “For the last time, he’s not my wildcatter.”

“If you’d seen the daggers he was throwing at Simp Creed when you two were dancing a little while ago,” Loretta said, “you’d know why I keep calling him ‘your’ wildcatter.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Joni sputtered. “Simp and I are friends—nothing more and nothing less.”

“I know that and you know that,” the buxom blonde agreed. “But if looks could kill, poor old Simp would be flat on the pavement right now.”

Joni’s startled gaze swung back to the circle, where Chance was guiding his partner around with skilled finesse. He caught her eye and nodded, then spun away, leaving her to stare at his
broad shoulders and the brunette’s familiar arm spanning them.

He danced the way he did everything else—with an easy rhythm rare in a man his size—and her heart tripped the light fantastic when she remembered his talented mouth. She twisted the plain gold band on her finger, trying to recall the cadence of Larry’s kisses. But her memory rested on the sensual tempo of Chance’s tongue, and she knew there was no dislodging it.

Loretta leaned over and laid her hand on Joni’s. “The way you’re worrying that ring, a body would think it was a ball and chain.”

“I’ve thought about taking it off,” Joni admitted softly, conscious of how heavy it had become these last two weeks. “But I’ve worn it for seven years now, and going without it would be like … going naked.”