Handful of Sky by Tory Cates Page B

the crouched predator in his determinedly casual pose, putting a wary distance between himself and his grandfather. No one spoke until Jake McIver cut the silence.
    “What the hell kind of a name is Shallie?”
    Shallie hated the question and the reply she always had to issue to it. “It’s short for Shalimar.”
    “Shalimar? You mean like the perfume?” McIver continued to probe, insensitive to her embarrassment.
    Shallie nodded.
    McIver looked puzzled for a moment, then roared out his by now familiar laughter. “That’s probably how you got started, wasn’t it? Your mama’s perfume. Is that it? Did old John name you after your mama’s perfume?”
    Shallie was grateful for the dim lighting, otherwise McIver would have had another object of ridicule—her flaming red cheeks.
    “You don’t have to answer that, Shallie.” Hunt’s voice, low and tight, cut through the bray of laughter. “The old man’s only kidding.”
    Shallie was grateful for Hunt’s intervention, but to remain silent would be to allow Jake McIver the upper hand, something she didn’t intend to let happen.
    “Yes, I suppose my mother’s perfume did have something to do with my start in life,” she answered in a light, bantering tone. “I guess I’m lucky she didn’t wear Opium.”
    Old McIver eyed her as if sizing her up for a second time. A surprised chuckle accompanied the glance. “You’re right, it could have been a lot worse. Most folks, if they had been named after the romantic potions that put the twinkle in their daddy’s eye, would have ended up being christened Wild Turkey.”
    Shallie forced herself to laugh, aware both of its falseness and of Hunt’s eyes upon her. His lips were sealed in a grim, tight line. That was when Shallie noticed that he and his grandfather shared the same sort of full, sensuous mouth. When not laughing, the corners hung down with a slight petulance. They were mouths which had demanded, and known, more than their fair share of pleasure.
    “What kind of mangy steers did you bring down for this rodeo school Hunt’s putting on?”
    Shallie let her reply fall into the rhythm of McIver’s repartee. “Just the flea-bittenest, motliest bunch I could come up with.” Sometimes she felt almost bilingual in her ability to switch into the speech patterns favored by rodeo folk.
    “We’ll have a look at your sorry beeves tomorrow. Come on, Trish, time for me to put this old body to bed.” McIver negated his words by springing spryly to his feet. He was well over six feet tall, every inch as trim as he had been half a century before. Trish trailed behind him as he swept out of the room. Shallie detected the electric glance that passed between Trish and Hunt. It sparked aflicker of jealousy that she was quick to extinguish. The last thing in the world she needed was to become embroiled in the twisted affairs of the Circle M. At least she had an explanation now for the hostility that flared between Hunt and his grandfather. Hunt too knew the prick of the green-eyed monster.
    The gargantuan room seemed to shrink once Jake and Trish had left. Hunt stood suddenly very close. Shallie’s thoughts spun in a futile attempt to come up with something resembling polite conversation.
    “It would appear you’ve learned that a sharp wit can be a handy weapon.” Hunt’s words were as quiet as his grandfather’s had been raucous. They also made Shallie suspect that Hunt too might be a bilinguist who reserved one way of speaking for rodeo people and another for the rest of the world. Shallie felt oddly flattered that he didn’t feel he had to use his rodeo camouflage with her.
    “Actually I have you to thank for teaching me that lesson. Besides, what other way is there to deal with your grandfather?”
    “The only way I know of dealing with him is very carefully.” A frostiness crept into Hunt’s words, which hung in the air long after they had been spoken. Shallie cast about for another topic of conversation.