Chapter 6
Friday night was upon them and with it the biggest square dance of the year. Jessica planned to attend. Mostly, to watch the men she fed every day interact someplace other than in the dining hall. Yet, a dark pall had blanketed her since early this morning.
Seeing Clint daily had made him a part of her personal orbit. To see him around other women—a perfectly natural occurrence considering his reputation—brought a lung-squeezing dread. In the weeks she'd spent in his general vicinity, she'd hoped to glimpse a flaw—a mistreatment of his men, a kick of an animal, mouthing-off to Roy, anything—to loosen his grip on her heart. But it wasn't to be so. If anything, her respect for Clint had risen exorbitantly and thoughts of him occupied her mind more every single day.
But, tonight, deep in her heart she knew she would be witness to his one serious flaw. His womanizing. But, dang it all. She'd earned this time tonight. This dance was a way for her to get out and have some fun. So, it was time to give her mind a rest, to let go, let loose. Even if that meant risking pain from the man who'd be unaware he was causing it.
Jessica found her way to the pick-up truck, stretched to climb up into it, and scooted to the middle, careful to keep her full-skirted sundress from riding up. She'd chosen the broad-strapped dress in green to bring out that same color in her eyes, and hoped the style wasn't so different from Montanan get-ups that she'd stand out. She'd considered her usual ponytail, but ruled that out for loose waves tucked behind her ears and down her back.
Johnnie slid behind the wheel and brought the old truck to life. To her relief, Pete—a regular motor mouth—bounded into the passenger seat. He prattled on about the weather, the season, mundane things, and Jessica nestled into the comfort of not having to listen too hard.
". . . and Clint told us about your helping him with the cow and calf, Jess."
Jessica reared her head toward Pete. "What?"
Pete hadn't heard her. He wasn't looking at her. He just kept right on blabbing. "Clint never talks 'bout his women, so the cowhands probed 'til he finally said you were a natural, helpin' and carin' about those critters."
Silence.
The truck bumped hard into a pothole. As they bounced, Pete took a deep breath and jumped in again. "We was surprised. Clint's never asked another gal ta do that before. Ever." He turned a rakish grin on her then. "Said you rode together on his horse and that he—"
"Whoa boy," Johnnie cut in. "Clint said nothing about that ride." Johnnie leaned in to briefly catch Pete's eye.
Warmth rushed up Jessica's neck and into her cheeks.
Pete looked flustered all of a sudden. "Aw, rats. I should shut-up when I'm talkin'."
Johnnie grunted. "Yeah, you should."
Jessica's thoughts were still on Pete's revelation when Johnnie parked in the field within a sea of vehicles. Pete leapt out of the truck and left the door wide open to head for the crowd. She glanced past him at the activity in the barn. Even from a distance she could see she was completely out of her element. Most of the time, since arriving in Montana, she felt inadequate—like a Shetland pony amongst thoroughbreds. Tonight that sentiment was escalating.
Johnnie came around to her side, and bent in. His hat brim rapped against the roof, bringing her gaze to his. He looked at her with a question in those startling blue eyes. With hand extended, he waited without so much as a word. She ripped her attention away from the look of tenderness he was giving her, and placed her palm in his outstretched hand. Once on the ground she gave his hand a small squeeze of thanks before pulling hers away.
The sun slid below the horizon, streaking shades of pink across the darkening sky. It was glorious as always, but didn't do a thing to remove her apprehension. Try as she might to prepare herself for this evening, she felt ill-equipped. They moved toward the entrance, and her mouth grew drier. When they stepped through the entryway, a flood light from above flashed across them, heightening her nervousness.
A square dance was in full swing. One man shouted out commands, ". . . swing your lady, dosado . . ." Whirling partners breezed by. She tried to make out faces she might know, but everyone was jouncing and twirling so much, and the music and whooping was dizzying, and she had to lean back against the post. She glanced up to escape the whirling crowd and steady herself.
The interior of the barn was huge. On the outside it had looked like a normal burnished-red ranch barn. Inside, mammoth beams supported the entire structure from corner to corner. Dropping her gaze she noticed bales of hay scattered about the perimeter where many sat and visited or held hands. The band on a platform at the back wall consisted of four men garbed in western motif. Two played guitars, the third a banjo, each singing behind a silver microphone that seemed to swallow their faces.
She perused the mass of people. The cowboys tended to wear some form of white shirt tucked into their jeans with a black string tie, while the gals wore full western-style skirts with lots of petticoats, ruffled blouses, and cowboy boots. Different from poodle skirts, bobby sox, and oxford shoes, back home. At least Uncle Roy had talked her into wearing boots.
Jessica shook off the inkling of unease and allowed herself to be nudged along into the throng of people. Always protective, Johnnie, stayed at her side.
Smiling up at him, she said, "I'm going to mosey around a bit. Enjoy yourself. Don't worry about me." She thought she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but he nodded his agreement. Before she could move off, a sudden outpouring of giggles at the main entrance caught her attention. Jessica looked past the gaggle of women to a cowboy at their center, sauntering into the building—a head taller than the rest, all brawn and easy confidence. Only one man could pull off that walk, and Jessica's chest tightened at the sight of him.
Clint was breath-stopping. He wore what the rest of the men did, yet was worlds apart from any of them; Samson to mere man. More attractive, if that were even possible, than he had been each day since the moment she'd laid eyes on him. His new black Stetson sat low on his brows, so she couldn't see his eyes well, but he was grinning, flashing white teeth at the host of pretty ladies. Jealousy burned through her, making her legs feel hollow.
Without a word to Johnnie she slipped away. She needed to escape the view, to sit. There didn't seem to be a single spot open so she headed for the dark end of the barn. She ambled about like a lost little lamb when a hand roughly clamped her elbow and propelled her toward a hay bale. She jerked her head up to find a familiar face leering back at her. Though she knew him to be Brad Turner, one of the cowhands at the Big 'H', they had never been formally introduced.
He shoved her down next to Darrell, his ranch buddy. Always quiet during meals, he seemed to radiate dark intensity, but never as strongly as tonight. Brad was tall and lanky, and if the hard angles of his face were ever to soften, he might be considered nice looking. Darrell, greasy with deeply pocked skin, had yet to say anything, though he had turned to give her a carnal stare with cold black eyes.
She scooted to the edge of the bale.
Brad sat on her free side, wedging her against his buddy. "Well now, pretty lady." His gaze slid down the length of her body. "What brings you to our side of the barn?"
Their side? With a sinking feeling, she shifted to stand. Brad restrained her hand—a subtle entreaty. She took a quick breath, then leaned forward again. This time he pressed her palm firmly to the bale until she bore the prick of the hay against her skin. She didn't frighten easily, but his hint had crossed over to a demand, speeding her pulse.
He leaned closer. "You're not going anywhere. I haven't had a dance with you yet."
His dark eyes bore into hers. Jessica shuddered all over. Calm down. There are people near. All you have to do is scream.
"I need a drink," Jessica said, and tried to wrench free.
Brad pressed harder. "Nah, I don't think so. You can sit a spell before we dance."
Jessica saw a tall figure with a black Stetson, making his way through the bordering crowd. Her heart acce
lerated, knowing that shape and swaggering walk anywhere.
Clint marched straight up to them, all towering strength. His eyes darkened and his jaw ticked as he pinned first one man then the next with an open glare. It seemed a full minute had passed when he stuck out a hand. "Dance, Jessie?"
Jessica's eyes were pegged on Clint when she became aware of Brad's clammy hand slipping off the back of hers. "Yes."
Her palm connected to Clint's, and a frisson of sensation spiraled up her arm. She floated next to him through the crowd to the hub of the dance area. Making a slow turn, he gently placed her hand to his shoulder. His muscles flexed as he pulled her close, and bowed his head to fasten his eyes to hers. The tip of his hat tapped her head. Shadowed now—under that brim—the world fell away, and left only them on that dance floor.
When his fingertips at her waist caressed the back of her right arm, she lifted it to him. His hand caught hers and engulfed it in warmth. They finally moved, to the slow song, Love is a Many Splendored Thing.
Jessica could barely hear the music through the whooshing of blood in her ears. Already on adrenaline overload, her heart hammered against her chest and right into his. Would he know the real reason?
They'd only taken a few steps when Clint abandoned her hand to tuck a finger under her chin, lifting it so she would look him in the eye. Her breath caught in her throat. "Jessie, you need to stay away from him. This is not the first time I've had to intervene before Brad Turner could mistreat a woman." His low voice rumbled up from his chest right into her bones. "Shy away from them both. If I wasn't short-handed for the round-up, or if they weren't so good on cutting horses, I'd cut 'em loose. I may still. They're no good."
Eyes so compelling they seemed to demand her strict attention held hers in tow. Her fingers bit into his shoulder. She recognized he had saved her as Uncle Roy's niece, or possibly just any damsel in need. Nothing more. Still sheltered under the rim of his hat, she watched his eyebrows furrow. He seemed to be waiting for a response.
She swallowed through a dust-dry throat. "It was so dark at that end . . . I knew I'd made a mistake the minute he grabbed me."
An understanding smile squeezed into the corners of his mouth, and he nodded. He re-gathered her hand and curled her into his body to finish the dance in silence. She trembled against him. He'd think it was from the incident with Brad. That was good.
She enjoyed holding this man, knowing a repeat of it would be as likely as a lunar eclipse. She needed him, too—this savior from the evil that had invaded her tonight. Her body slowly calmed in his embrace. She soaked up his warmth, breathed in his pleasing scent—spice and soap and man. He shifted his snug hold and nuzzled her hair. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sheer intimacy of that move. Hope spiraled up like the smoke curl from a homey fireplace.
Please, Lord, let this song last.
Her mind began to play tricks on her, like Clint's hand opening across the curve of her spine, pressing her closer. She had to stop these little imaginings—the so-called tender looks, the imaginary lingering touches—like the possessive hold it only seemed he had on her right now.
But then there was the swaying of their bodies to the music, to a rhythm all their own . . . and it was heaven.
Clint suddenly tensed and stopped their swaying.
Jessica reluctantly leaned back from the wall of his chest to look up. He was staring over her head at something or someone. Lips pressed together, and jaw set, he looked . . . annoyed. Or was it guilty?
The music droned on, but Jessica inched back, feeling a jolt of loss. A light tap came to her shoulder. She swung away from Clint's body and saw a petite woman with long blonde hair and icy blue eyes. The blonde drew up on Clint and tilted her perfect-skinned face to grant him a wide smile. With a jeweled hand she stroked his upper arm. "You saved her. You're always so gallant." She twisted enough to give Jessica a frosty stare and, with an acidic voice for her ears only, said, "Next time, be smarter."
With smile back in place, she turned back to Clint. "The group has missed you."
For a cherished moment, Clint dueled with Jessica's stare, and she saw tangled emotions in his eyes. But then he took a step back, gave a slight pull on his hat brim, and said, "Jessie," then allowed himself to be led away and into the fray of faceless women awaiting him. He never once looked back.
Jessica felt something die inside her. She watched him walk away, hand-in-hand with her rival. Her rival?—how laughable. He'd rescued Jessica. A valiant knight, like the woman had said. When it was over, Jessica had been dismissed. His duty was done.
The rush to her system left her drained and her limbs leaden. When she heard the music stop, she forced her rigid legs out of the dance area.
Johnnie sauntered toward her. His long strides brought him near her quickly. "Jess? Can I get you anything?"
"I'm . . ." Dazed, she finally looked up at Johnnie and said, "Yes, I could use some water, if you don't mind."
Johnnie examined her for a few seconds then turned toward the refreshment table. While he was gone, she scanned the barn for a safe place to deposit her emotionally weary body. The only reasonable spot was on a hay bale behind that pack of Clint-ogling cowgirls. She rolled her eyes. But she had no choice. She needed to sit and didn't dare go to the wrong side of the barn again. She would have to do her best to not watch, was all.
The beauties cajoled, flirted, and rubbed up against him, all while Clint looked decidedly uncomfortable. Finally, with a grim look on his face, Clint grasped Miss Perfect's hand, spun her around, and steered her to the dance floor. She brooked a smile so big, Jessica wondered if she would break her beautiful, blue-eyed face. Jessica watched as he gathered her into his arms to dance to Patsy Cline's I Will Follow Him. Clint's large hand fixed her to him. He didn't talk, didn't smile, just danced. Once or twice Jessica saw him loosen the embrace to study her face as she talked. What was that look he gave her? Capitulation? Lust? Love?
Jessica squeezed her eyes shut and grasped a lock of hair, twirling it around her index finger. A lump formed in her throat, constricting the bit of breath left in her lungs.
Johnnie startled her with a squeeze to her shoulder. She looked up at him. He tenderly grasped the tendril she was annihilating, unwound it from her finger and held up a paper cup of water before dropping down next to her. "You all right?"
No. Not all right. She wanted to run screaming out the door, get on a train back to California and hide in her old life, never to return. But that wasn't an option.
Johnnie glanced at her, then followed her gaze to the dance floor. "Ah. I see. Amazing, isn't he?"
"What do you mean?" Jessica choked out.
"You know. How he can talk to any of the ladies and how they all seem to want him."
The statement pushed her misery to the background as aggravation came forth. She shifted her whole body to face him, though he didn't look at her. "I don't get it, Johnnie. You're a handsome, caring man. Why are they not clamoring over you?"
Johnnie didn't move, making her uneasy and wishing she hadn't asked the intrusive question. He finally wrung his gaze from the dirt floor and then up to her. A sad smile curved his mouth. Jessica's heart dropped. Why was her tongue always engaged before her brain? Still, she wondered about Johnnie—attentive, capable, protective Johnnie. And fine-looking. Don't forget fine-looking.
"Never mind," he said. "Let's dance." He took her glass and twisted it into the dirt. With his hand under her elbow, he led her gracefully to the dance area.
Johnnie pulled her into his embrace and rocked with the music. His hold was warm, strong. Yet when he pulled her close, her heart beat normally. So unlike her dance with Clint.
When the music stopped they made their way back to the hay bale. She tried not to, but in the end she found herself perusing the barn for signs of Clint. She located him all right, in time to see him with a hand to the small of Miss Perfect's back, scooting her toward the large barn door. Grief stabbed her at the thought of them togeth
er . . . somewhere else.
It was near midnight when Johnnie settled her in the passenger seat of the truck to drive her back to the ranch house. Crazy Pete had caught a ride in the bed of someone else's pick-up truck. She grinned at how he'd hooted and hollered into the night as they'd spun around and driven off toward town.
Johnnie was his usual quiet self. She was thankful for that, since her eyes drifted shut when thoughts of Clint invaded: Clint's hand as he'd tugged her away from Brad and guided her to the dance floor, the sway of their bodies to the melody. If she closed her eyes real tight she could almost relive the heat of his embrace. But, as in the way of all memories, the bad encroached—the woman interrupting the perfect cadence of the dance, and the moonbeams shining down on Clint's tall form as he'd escorted her out into the night.
A squeak of hinges startled her. Johnnie was standing at the open truck door, the ranch house at his back. A gust of night air hit her bare arms, and she shivered. He offered a hand to help her down. She smiled at him—forever the gentleman—as she put her hand in his. He had removed his Stetson and a dash of moonlight swept across his face adding a silvery brilliance to the cobalt hue of his eyes.
He helped her out of the old truck, led her to the front door, and turned her slowly to face him. Lifting a hand he brushed at her temple, trailed his fingertips down her cheek, and stopped at her jawline. He inched closer.
"Thanks, Johnnie," she said and stepped back.
He dropped his hand to his side. "My pleasure."
Before he could say another thing, she let herself into the house and didn't stop moving until she'd slipped between cool sheets. But now all she could think was of Johnnie's disappointed eyes and the slow scuff of boots as he'd plodded back to the bunkhouse.
Hours passed before she heard the muffled sound of horse's hooves outside. She rose and went to the window. In the moonlight, where only shadows took shape, she spied the ethereal form of a large cowboy astride his gelding—hat pulled low, jacket collar turned up against the cold. The stiffness of her body reminded her she'd been subconsciously waiting for Clint's return.
She glanced at the clock—2:30 a.m. Turning away from the window she dashed back to her bed and threw herself onto it. Clenching the pillow across her head, she breathed into the cotton sheets until she ran out of air, then twisted to her back and threw the pillow off. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud. But moments later, despair crept in. She crossed her arms over her face and felt the wetness there. Sleep would not be her companion this night.