Controlled Burn (3 page)

“You need to eat. You’re too skinny.”

How dare he.
She gave him the look she knew he expected. The same one she’d given him seven years ago when he’d sat behind the prosecutor at her trial. Slowly, she rose, took her plate to the trash bin, and scraped it clean. He could keep his good food. She didn’t need it. Didn’t need a damn thing except to just get through the next few days. Then she’d be free and clear. Her money would come and go, but she wouldn’t give Jeremiah McCord and his fancy house and handsome face another thought.

Jeremiah sat in
the silence that followed her exit and wondered why he felt like he’d kicked a kitten.

Up close and personal for the very first time, certain things didn’t feel right about his long-held view of Carly Lohan.

Sure, she’d acted the way he’d expected from the moment they’d collided at the community center—confrontational and quick-tempered. He’d been prepared for any wobbler the little firebug threw.

He’d fallen into an old pattern. One he’d regretted a time or two. Quick judgments were something he cautioned himself against nearly every day, because his father had ridden him about his temper and stubbornness.

All it had taken was one look at the tilt of her chin, and he’d felt the same way he had seven years earlier, staring at her inside the sheriff’s office after she’d been arrested. He’d been tired after fighting a wildfire all night, and sick to his stomach that he’d nearly lost everything—and she’d had the nerve to raise her chin and pin him with a look that said she didn’t give a damn about his inconvenience or loss.

Tonight, his belly had knotted, and he’d found himself insisting she stay at his place. That invitation hadn’t been planned. He’d issued that edict out of spite, and regretted it the moment his blood had settled to a low boil—or maybe when he’d seen the ragged suitcase and even more raggedy car she drove. Life hadn’t been easy for Carly Lohan. Some might say she deserved a little hardship, but she had been only seventeen when she’d started the fire. And if he remembered correctly from her public defender’s description of her young life, she’d been in and out of foster care since she was ten and orphaned.

Back then, he hadn’t had a thought for anything but his own pain, but he’d been raised in abundance—a happy, well-off family, friends whose families had been friends with his for generations. He’d had history and privilege backing his pride.

Carly hadn’t any of that, and still she’d lifted her chin and dried up any sympathy anyone inside that courtroom might have had.

Only now, after sitting across from her at his table and watching her expression as she’d eaten Mayra’s food had he stopped to think about how different their lives had been.

Maybe the years had tempered his hardness, giving him the maturity to finally see the world from her viewpoint. Maybe there was more to her than simply a contentious young woman with a heavy chip on her shoulder. He hadn’t expected her to relent and offer to help out.

And he hadn’t expected to feel physical attraction.

Nothing about her should have sparked his interest. She was thin, barely a curve of feminine breast, but he had noticed the indention of her waist and the flare of her hips. Not a lot, but interesting just the same. Her hair wasn’t particularly noteworthy, falling to the middle of her back without a single wave or curl, and brown. But it was glossy and looked soft. Her skin was pale with a smattering of light freckles across the bridge of her nose. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing noteworthy.

Her eyes, however, stopped him in his tracks. Nearly always a stormy gray, when she’d said, “I’m not that person anymore,” the color had softened to an antique silver. He’d felt a pang in his chest. And then his gaze had dropped to her soft mouth, and he’d felt a tug in his groin. He’d had to steel himself against the inextricable pull.

He couldn’t be attracted to her. She was nothing like the women he’d normally dated, nothing like his wife—not blond and uncomplicated. He’d never liked complicated.

Jeremiah shoved away his plate and slumped in his chair. He’d been an ass, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. Because that would mean he’d have to knock on her door, and the last thing he needed was another look at her pretty gray eyes, staring accusingly.

And what the hell was that about? He’d been the one wronged. He’d nearly lost everything—because of her carelessness.

So why did he suddenly feel guilty about the years of payments he’d received, however paltry? Whenever he had considered them, he’d thought she’d gotten off light. So another ten or so years were needed to pay off the debt. He’d never considered how hard that payment had to be for her to make. Now, knowing her circumstances, guilt dug a pit in his belly.

Jeremiah raked a hand through his hair. He was tired. That was all. Tomorrow, in the light of day, her threadbare jeans and large, haunting eyes wouldn’t bother him a bit.

‡

C
arly wasn’t unaccustomed
to hard work, but she’d never before used a pitchfork. The cowboy who’d set her on her task had called it a “shit fork”—before clearing his throat and explaining the implement was smaller than a regular pitchfork so that the balls of horse dung didn’t fall between the tines.

After mucking out the stalls, she’d forked a mini-mountain of horse manure and straw into the center of the barn. Now she was pitching load after load into the wheelbarrow so she could wheel it out and add it the larger mountain of dung behind the barn. Dung that was used in Mayra’s garden.

Before today, she’d never given much thought to horses, and she’d never had an aversion to the smell, but a day of forking poop had altered her view forever. Or so she told herself. She knew she must be a sight in her dirty jeans and tee. She’d forgotten to take off her gloves a time or two and used them wipe sweat from her face. Meaning she had to have some smeared on her cheek.

But she didn’t dare stop. Not and have the high-and-mighty Jeremiah shaking his head. The night before, he’d been so sure she’d balk at his list of chores. Little did he know, but she was used to hard work. Her foster families had made sure of it.

Still, she’d never mucked stalls, and the repetitive motions had tightened the muscles at the small of her back, and her upper arms until they felt bruised. Pausing to stretch, she reached high, letting the hem of her shirt rise. The slight breeze blowing through the open barn doors wafted against her belly and felt almost luxurious.

“Looks like we’ll make a cowboy out of you yet.”

Carly dropped her arms and glanced over her shoulder. She’d missed Jeremiah at breakfast. Mayra told her he’d been up before dawn, as was his custom, to check on the herd. Carly hadn’t seen him since dinner the night before and dreaded their next encounter.

While her mind was made up to detest the man, her fickle body responded with a wave of heat that swept her cheeks and prickled her nipples. No man had a right to look that good when he was that dirty. “The cowboy who showed me how to muck out a stall asked me what I’d done to piss you off.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “And what did you say?”

“That I’d burned three hundred acres of hay and an expensive bailer. He said that’d do it.”

He gave his signature grunt.

Even though she’d told herself that morning she must have imagined its appeal, she still felt the pull deep in her core.

“You should take a break,” he said, his voice sounding gruff.

“Why? I’m not done.” Did he think she’d jump at the chance to not finish?

“The sun’s out, and the air’s warm in here, Carly. And it’s time for lunch. Someone else can finish up.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll have to bathe again.”

He came closer and picked a piece of straw from her hair. Then he rubbed her cheek.

An action that shocked her to her toes.

“I think you’ve picked up more than a little dirt,” he murmured.

Because she was nervous with him standing so close, she laughed. “I have shit on my face. You can say it.” She swept a hand toward his own dirty clothing. “I’ve been mucking stalls, what’s your excuse?”

A smile stretched across his face.

The first she’d ever seen. Her stomach flipped.

“I chased a calf into an arroyo. He got separated from his mama. Took some doing to get him up on the horse with me.”

“I’d have loved seeing that.” And she meant it. The thought of him chasing a calf on horseback—well hell, now she was romanticizing the surly cowboy.

One dark brow arched. “You would have loved seeing a calf getting the better of me?”

“Yeah.” Feeling breathless because he was still standing close, she had to remind herself he was only being polite. That he’d likely come to see whether she was still hard at work. She moved away to lean her fork against the barn wall. “I better go shower, or Mayra will light into me.”

“I better hit the shower, too.”

Walking away, Carly pursed her lips and blew out a hot stream of air. Him being civil was tough enough on her libido. Now she had the picture of a naked, wet Jeremiah in her head.

Not wanting to track manure through the house, she took off her boots at the door before entering and making her way up the stairs. She headed straight to the shower with its lovely shower head that poured water like a soft rain over her head and never grew cold no matter how long she stood beneath it.

But eventually, she acknowledged her hunger, turned off the water, and then reached for a big fluffy towel. At that moment, she realized she’d forgotten to bring along clean clothing.

No worries, Jeremiah had likely finished his shower long ago and was already digging into his meal. She opened the door and padded toward her bedroom.

Just as she was reaching for the knob, she saw another door open, just past the staircase.

Jeremiah stepped out into the hallway, his hair wet and looking cool and clean in his chambray shirt and Wranglers.

Before she could push open the door and jump inside, she watched his head turn.

His gaze trailed from her sodden hair, dripping on her shoulders to the towel she’d knotted between her breasts. “See you downstairs,” he said, his voice thick, and then he strode quickly to the staircase and out of her sight.

She opened her door, entered, and then sagged against the cool wood. Would she ever catch a break with the man? First, he’d rubbed horseshit off her face, and then he’d caught her looking like a drowned rat.

She must be the most unappealing woman he’d ever had the misfortune to have under his roof—even if only for a few days. For once, she wished she had something stylish in the closet to pull out and wow him with. Then maybe he’d see her as something other than some white-trash nuisance.

Although she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d deal with anything other than his annoyance and mistrust. Just the thought of him ever showing any masculine interest made her heart stutter and her palms sweat.

No, she was better off to never entertain those thoughts. Jeremiah was way out of her league, and too much history existed between them—all of it bad—to think that a little spark of attraction might catch fire.

Jeremiah was sitting
at the table when Carly entered the kitchen. She flashed Mayra a quick smile, a gesture that tightened his gut because her smile stretched her bowed lips and reminded him she was a pretty woman.

Carly didn’t glance his way until she set down the plate Mayra handed her and took her seat. And then, she aimed her wide gaze his way, reminding him of the shock that produced a pink blush when he’d caught her in nothing but a towel upstairs.

“You clean up nice,” he drawled, eyeing her long-sleeved, gray plaid cotton blouse and crisp blue jeans. Her wet hair was pulled into a tight ponytail which only emphasized her large eyes.

“I smell better too,” she said, a wry smile curving her mouth.

He felt an answering grin tugging at his lips.

“So, who’s teaching me to milk a goat?”

He shook his head. “That can wait. Since you said you’re not comfortable around horses, I thought we’d take a mule out to check the canyon rim.”

She frowned. “How’s riding a mule any different than riding a horse?”

“Not that kind of mule, Carly.”

“Oh. You mean the dune buggy kind.”

He gave her a nod then dug into his roast beef sandwich, unwilling to enter into more of a conversation on the odd chance they’d end up arguing again. He wanted to see her finish her meal this time.

She took a bite, and then her eyes rounded. “Hot-hot!” She chewed vigorously, swallowed, and reached for her glass of iced tea. “What’s in the sandwich?”

“There’re some mild jalapenos in Mayra’s chipotle spread. If it’s too much, you can make another.”

She shook her head and took another bite, this one smaller. “No,” she said after swallowing. “I just wasn’t expecting the heat. This is good.”

They ate in companionable silence, Carly’s eyes only watering a little, until they’d both finished. When he saw her rise and begin gathering dishes, he said, “Leave them. I’ll bring the mule around to the back.”

Minutes later, he pulled up beside the porch where Carly waited. She took her seat beside him, and he reached behind him for a hat and gloves. “Wear these. The month may be March, but the sun’s high. You still might burn.”