Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho) Read online

  But right now, one seriously hot farmer had his hand around hers again, was looking at her with something in his eyes, something in his smile . . .

  What white teeth you have, she thought. And the big bad wolf said, “The better to eat you with, my dear.” She couldn’t help the delicious shiver that went down her spine at the thought.

  He pulled her out onto the floor, set his right hand on her shoulder blade, the fingertips just kissing bare skin, and that shiver was coming from more than her thoughts. He wasn’t trying to do anything else, but she was as aware of those fingers as if he’d been touching her someplace else. Someplace really good. He was looking down at her, those blue eyes holding hers, and the band was playing again. The drums and the bass starting it, a steady, slow beat, the lead guitar kicking in, and the singer crooning low and deep, an incongruously smooth sound coming from his scrawny body.

  “Okay. Two-step. First thing you do,” he told her as the music filled her, swept her up in its insistent throb, “is put your hand on me. Right up here,” he said, patting his right shoulder. “And then you hang on for the ride.”

  She set her hand tentatively where he indicated, felt the ridge of muscle rising under his black T-shirt, and very nearly took it right off him again.

  He felt the hesitation, smiled a little. “Feels kinda close, huh? Not the way you dance with some guy you just met, back in California?”

  “Sort of.” Well, not “sort of” at all, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “You’ve got a secret weapon here, darlin’,” he said. “Called your thumb.” He took his hand off her back, put it over hers, maneuvered her thumb so it was resting on his collarbone. “You give this arm a little muscle,” he told her. “Give me some tension, push back a little. Not a bad thing at all. Where we go is up to me, but how close we dance? That’s entirely up to you.”

  “I like that part,” she said. “And you know that thing I said about darlin’?”

  “I’m going to keep forgetting,” he said, “because I can’t seem to help myself. So maybe you could pretend it’s all right, this one time. Pretend you’re a pretty girl in a bar, dancing with a man who thinks you’re the sweetest thing he’s seen in months, and that he’s mighty lucky to be the one holding you. Just for tonight.”

  Her eyes widened, and he smiled, a little crookedly. “Just pretend,” he said. “I’ll never tell.”

  She had to smile then. She didn’t know if it was true, or if he was just pretending, too . . . but she couldn’t help smiling.

  “And damn,” he groaned, “there go those dimples again. You’re distracting me. Here we go. Backwards, off your toes. Quick-quick slow-slow. Step-together, slow, slow. Just like that.”

  He coached and teased, and surely the band was playing chorus after chorus of that song, and she was dancing backward after all, starting to feel just a little bit like somebody else, like a woman who would be dancing in a cowboy bar with Cal Jackson, and having him look at her like that.

  “That’s real good,” he told her. “All you need to do now is relax into it and let me drive. I’ve got you, and I’m not going to let you fall or mess up.”

  “Maybe it’s that I’m used to being in charge,” she said, trying to maintain her equilibrium. It wasn’t easy, not with his broad chest so close to hers, not looking at the muscular brown column of his neck, the faint shading of beard from where he’d shaved that morning. Dark, because his hair was dark, the hair she hadn’t seen under that hat on Monday. Dark, thick, and cut close to his head.

  His skin was dark, too. Tanned and warm and firm, and covering all that muscle, everything she could feel under her hand, everything she was trying not to look at. He was so big, so sure. He made her feel feminine, and small, and . . . pretty. And just for tonight, maybe that was all right. Just for tonight.

  “You can be in charge all you want,” he promised. “But not right now. There’s only a couple of places where a man gets to be in charge, but we’re pretty jealous about those couple of sweet, sweet places.”

  Another rush of heat at that, and she swallowed, and knew he saw it.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his lips curving into a slow smile. “Just relax and go with it. Let me do the driving. I’ll get you there, I promise.”

  “I hope all this innuendo is entertaining you,” she managed, trying not to count her steps, to ease into the steady beat, “because it’s not doing a thing for me.”

  There were crinkles of amusement around his eyes. “You just keep right on trying. I like that no-quit in you. Hope you don’t mind if I keep trying, too. Can’t seem to help myself.”

  Somehow, they were on a different song now. The second? The third? She didn’t know. Still not too fast for her, and she was keeping up. She was dancing.

  And then he was coaching her through a twirl, and the feeling of being spun around, her boots sliding together like they belonged to somebody else, of being caught again with his hand warm and strong against her back . . . it felt good. She surrendered to it at last, moved with him, exactly where he wanted her to go.

  “That’s right,” he told her, moving across the floor like he’d been born doing this. “That’s real good. Just feel the music and let me take you along with me. Just like that. Just that easy. Just that sweet.”

  MY NEXT BROKEN HEART

  Cal couldn’t actually dance with her all night, unfortunately. The band finally played a good fast one after a raised eyebrow from Wayne, the guitarist, and an answering nod from Cal. Cal twirled her and turned her forward and back again, felt her going right along with him, letting go, letting him move her every way he wanted to. And then, much too soon, she was laughing, stepping back, saying, “Wow. Give me a second. I think I need a beer,” and not even raising any objection when he took off to get it for her.

  “Though I know you’d rather have bought it yourself,” he said when he brought it back. “Being the independent kind of woman you are.”

  There was that curve of pink mouth as she smiled right back at him. Her lipstick was all-the-way chewed off by now, and not only didn’t she care, he could swear that she was totally unaware of it. And her mouth looked great.

  Rochelle and Deke showed up, too, then, Rochelle laughing as she took her seat. “What do you think, Cal? Think you owe me?”

  “Yeah. I do.” He slid out of the chair. “Now, don’t drop anything in my beer while I’m gone, Professor,” he told Zoe. “I know you want my body, but control yourself. I’ll do most things if I’m asked nicely.” He winked at her. “Give me ten minutes and I’m right back here, ready to show you a few more things.”

  He hadn’t been planning on having to bribe a whole band to play things his way while he was out tonight. Like it or not, he was taking a trip to the ATM. But it was going to be a quick one.

  Less than fifteen minutes, and he was back there. And she wasn’t at the table. Nobody was.

  His eyes roamed the dark, crowded dance floor, looked for that yellow dress, that dark head. And saw her. He leaned back in his chair and watched them circle the floor. Watched Greg Moore, that sleazy bastard he had the misfortune of calling his cousin, giving Zoe a double spin and catching her again, his hand landing a little too far from her shoulder blade, pretty damn close to where it had no business being, sliding casually around again, none too quickly, to its proper place.

  She still had that thumb clamped, he saw. At least there was that.

  He waited until the song ended, then vaulted onto the stage again and said a couple words into Wayne’s ear. Wayne nodded, long hair swinging, set his guitar in its stand, and Cal was jumping down again.

  “We’ll take a short break, folks,” Wayne announced. “Back in fifteen.”

  Cal got back to the table before the others did, pulled out Zoe’s chair before Greg had a chance. He saw Greg about to sit his self-satisfied butt in the chair beside her,
too, not getting the point at all.

  “How’s Kathy doing?” Cal asked him. “And how’s that new baby?”

  Zoe turned, looked up at Greg in surprise, and Greg glowered at Cal.

  Cal kept his expression innocently inquisitive. “Heard the second one’s tougher,” he said. “She at home with them tonight? Well,” he said with a laugh he didn’t mean one bit, “of course she is. Not like a woman with a newborn’s up for much dancing.”

  “Her mom’s there,” Greg got out between his teeth. “Thanks for your concern.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cal raised the bottle to his lips, took a sip. Warm, but who cared.

  Greg looked like he’d have loved to say something else, clearly thought better of it. “Nice to meet you, Zoe,” he finally decided to say.

  “Uh . . . yeah,” she said. “Give my best to your wife. And the kids.”

  “Don’t forget his mother-in-law,” Cal said. “Aunt Doreen doesn’t like to be forgotten.”

  Greg beat a scowling retreat with as much dignity as he could muster. Cal let a little smile of satisfaction curl his lips and watched Zoe drain her beer. That was her third, he was pretty sure, and she didn’t look like a big drinker to him.

  Rochelle came back at last, sitting down with Deke, who looked happier than a pig in shit.

  “Falling down on the job, aren’t you?” Cal asked Rochelle. “You didn’t happen to mention Greg Moore’s interesting—and increasing—family to Zoe? Speaking of bad guys and good guys,” he told Zoe, “I’m not saying Greg’s a criminal, but he’s not exactly a saint, either. I wouldn’t say your radar’s too accurate so far.”

  “Oh, is that who you were with?” Rochelle asked, sounding a little distracted, or maybe just like a woman with a good buzz on. “No, really, he’s not the best news, Zoe.”

  “Yeah. A little late, aren’t you,” Cal said. “Good thing I was on the job. And darlin’,” he told Zoe, “just because he’s not wearing a ring, that doesn’t mean he’s not married.”

  “Look for the little dent,” Rochelle put in, fingering the spot where her wedding ring had been. “That means they pulled it off right outside the door. Or that band of white where their tan stops.”

  “Oh, now you’re helpful,” Cal said.

  “Hey,” Deke said, “maybe she was having a good time. Dancing’s not a crime, even with a lower life form like Greg. She wasn’t taking him out into the parking lot. Just dancing.”

  “Thought I’d filled up your dance card for the night, anyway,” Cal told Zoe. “I’m gone five minutes, and it’s all over? Did all our promises mean nothing to you after all? Have the flowers of spring all withered and died?”

  “What?” She stared at him.

  “What, don’t geology ladies have any poetry in their souls?”

  “Ah . . . no, I guess. You’ve got me there.” She was struggling not to smile. “And anyway,” she went on, doing her proper thing again, seeming to forget that she was in a yellow lace dress and purple cowboy boots, and that that dress had dipped a little lower, ridden a little higher, while he’d been gone. There was quite a bit of firm, warm bare thigh right there next to him, and some—not cleavage, but call it just the barest bit of a shadow, up above. Which he wasn’t looking at. Much.

  “Anyway,” she said again, sitting up straight and putting her shoulders back, running a hand through that hair, and distracting him for a minute, “who died and made you the boss of my body?”

  She got a muffled snort out of Rochelle and some frank goggling from Deke for that.

  “Well, now,” Cal said, “that’s a real interesting question. Let’s get you another beer, get you out on the floor for another lesson, and see if we can come up with an answer. I’ve got a step I’d like to teach you. Called the Sweetheart. And I think you’d look real good doing it.”

  “You know that thing I told you about the thumb?” he asked her when he’d got her on his hip and sashayed across the floor with her, then had twirled her back into place, her feet moving perfectly with his now, her eyes sparkling to the driving music and the beer and, he sincerely hoped, him.

  “I remembered it,” she said.

  “Yeah, I saw that. Good job. But I may have neglected to mention one little item.”

  “What’s that?”

  He danced her backward toward the band, lifted his hand briefly toward the stage, moved it down in a flat motion, then put his hand back and spun her as the song ended. He waited a minute, kept hold of her until the drums started in again, as steady and insistent as the beating of his heart, and the guitar commenced a slow, sweet wail.

  He didn’t start dancing quite yet, though. Instead, he ran his hand up her arm, right over the smooth skin, all the way to that thumb gripping his shoulder. He stroked his own thumb over it, felt the way it tightened on him, then loosened under his caress.

  “The thumb’s optional,” he told her. He took his time sliding his hand back to her shoulder blade, enjoying every bit of the journey. He looked down into her eyes, and he could swear they darkened. No question, the pink lips had parted a little.

  “The thumb . . .” she said, swallowing with an effort, because he could see her slim throat working. “The thumb stays. You want to dance close, I’ll bet you could find a volunteer.”

  “Tempting,” he said, even though it wasn’t, not a bit. “But I guess I’ll stick with you.”

  They danced like that, nice and slow, but not nice and close, until Wayne ended the song, shrugged behind Zoe’s back, and switched it up. Up-tempo again, Wayne grinning at Cal, then launching into the next one, and Cal had to smile at Wayne’s choice.

  Because, yeah. Maybe so. Maybe he was.

  Working on his next broken heart.

  And that looked like just what it was going to be, because there he was an hour later, walking a girl home from a dance like he was fifteen years old. Worse, walking her home with her girlfriend as a chaperone.

  When Zoe and Rochelle had exchanged one of those complicated woman-looks and gotten up to leave, he’d gotten right up with them.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said.

  “We walked,” Rochelle said. “My place is only a couple blocks away. Plus, you know . . .” She waggled her final empty bottle. “A few too many.”

  “What about Zoe?” Cal asked. “This a sleepover?”

  He saw the smile the girls exchanged, caught the startled look from Deke, met it with one of his own. Damn. Nah. Couldn’t be. Or could it? Wouldn’t that be something?

  “Nope,” Rochelle said. “I’m walking Zoe home first.”

  “Then I’m coming, too,” Cal said. “Since you gave me my Good Guy badge and everything. Call it protection.”

  Deke had come along, of course. No shaking him.

  Cal had taken one look at the girls when they’d stepped out into the high-forties chill of a late-October night in Paradise, and asked in astonishment, “You’re walking home like that? You’ll freeze.”

  “Nah,” Rochelle said. “Zoe lives up by City Park, that’s all. What’s that, six blocks? We’ll walk fast.”

  “Hell you will,” Cal said. “Got my truck right here. Five minutes and you’re there. Both of you, since I can tell the professor isn’t about to climb up in my truck alone with me, Good Guy badge or no.”

  “No, thanks,” Zoe said. “You’ve had as many beers as I have.” At least she tried to say it, but her teeth were chattering so bad, Cal could barely hear it.

  The buzz he was feeling wasn’t coming from the beer, but he wasn’t telling her that. “Right,” he said. “Walking.” He opened up his truck, grabbed his sweatshirt, and tossed it to Rochelle. “Put this on.”

  She didn’t argue, and he was already shrugging out of his heavy wool jacket, draping it over Zoe’s shoulders. “Here, princess. Can’t do anything about those pretty bare legs of yours, but
this’ll help.”

  “You’ll be cold, though,” she said, but she was putting it on all the same. The ends of the sleeves dropped inches past her hands, and the tails of the jacket hung to midthigh, so far you could barely even see the dress. She could be naked under there. And wasn’t that a nice little thought.

  “Me? I’m pretty much immune by this point. Besides,” he said with a grin at her, “I tend to run hot.”

  Rochelle snorted, and Zoe laughed, too, and kept on laughing. “I thought this was going to be good practice,” she told him with a little snort of her own that told him that four beers were about three more than she was used to drinking. “Flirting with you. I kind of need practice, in case you can’t tell. I can’t decide if you’re practicing, too, or if this is your normal mode.”

  “You think? And this isn’t even my A game. I’m a little rusty, you could say.” He set off down the broad sidewalk of a nearly deserted Main Street with her, leaving Rochelle to follow along with Deke. “But I was practice, huh? Who am I the warm-up act for? Got your eye on somebody up there on campus?” He sighed. “And here I picked the hay out of my hair and everything.”

  Another snort. “Nobody. Practice for nobody.”

  “Ah.” He pretended he understood, even though he didn’t. Could she be into girls after all?

  No. Those had been signals she’d been sending. Confused signals, contradictory signals, but signals all the same. He was glad, though. She didn’t belong with some professor. She needed loosening up, needed to let that woman inside her go. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part.

  “I like the paintings,” she said, checking out the storefronts they were passing. The antique store, the mineral shop, the hardware store. All of them were decorated as they had been every Halloween for as long as he could remember, with ghosts and pumpkins, witches flying on brooms across big, round harvest moons like the one shining right now, all applied with poster paint by clearly young and inexperienced hands.