calling you little endearments start something with your hired man, Calla?”
Calla dragged her lower lip between her teeth to keep from shouting at him. Calla was a shouter; everyone who’d ever known her knew it. On cattle drives, her temper was legendary. Let a calf go back, and you’ll face the sad consequences of Calla’s temper, her brother had always warned the cowboys.
But she’d been careful never to raise her voice to Clark before. His New England sensibilities couldn’t take it.
“I don’t know, exactly, Clark,” she said, as softly as she could manage. “I just know that we’ve been going together for about a year now, and you have never once called me by anything but my name.” She was losing control. She could feel it, but she didn’t care. “But tonight, with Henry here acting, admittedly, like a big fool, you called me everything but…” Calla searched for a vile enough word “…lovergirl! And you patted me on the ass, Clark!”
“Calla, I’ve talked to you about your swearing.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Calla!”
“I mean it, Clark. Take your feet off my table and hit the road.” She stomped into the hallway, flicking the switch on the wall as she passed. The kitchen, and Clark, were plunged into the sudden blackness of a moonless Idaho night.
* * *
Henry had the bunkhouse to himself. Lester was obviously in town on a drunk. He was grateful. If the old man had laughed at him tonight, in that raspy, wheezy way he had that made him sound like a cartoon dog, Henry would have had to kill him.
Dammit! Henry paced across the small room. Dammit!
He couldn’t have handled that situation any worse if he’d tried. Calla, this very minute, was probably swearing him up and down. If she wasn’t busy kissing Dartmouth. Dammit!
Who the hell was this woman? He’d known her all of two weeks, had maybe five conversations with her, kissed her one time, one time! Was it logical to be this riled up at the thought of her kissing the man she was fully intending to marry? No. It was not logical.
He flung himself onto his bunk like a teenage boy in a fit of temper.
It was more than a kiss. He hadn’t had time to really go over it in his mind. He’d been gripped by such a strange, debilitating rage when he’d seen Calla hop that fence and walk over to meet Dartmouth that it was all he could do to keep himself from challenging the shinny bastard to a duel at sunrise. With swords, something he could use to draw a good amount of blood.
He couldn’t think at all, much less clearly, a terrifyingly unfamiliar state for him to be in. He’d simply walked back to the bunkhouse, showered in the narrow bathroom stall, and plotted how to disrupt what he imagined was going to be a quiet family dinner.
He’d certainly done that, he thought with a small groan. He’d made a complete fool of himself. He tried to focus on that. Humiliation was certainly a new experience for him, but it was at least manageable. He didn’t want to have to think about the more emotional complications tonight’s outburst might entail.
He crossed his arms behind his head, concentrating for a moment on what had happened before the disastrous dinner. It was easy, too easy. Calla’s mouth, Calla’s breasts, the smooth, strong feel of her under his fingers. He felt himself relax a little. The four or five glasses of whiskey probably helped, he thought.
Calla had tasted better than he could have imagined; warm and sweaty and sweet. Her mouth had opened to him. He’d known it would. And her body. Had he ever pressed himself against anyone so curvy, so sexy, so firm and fluid?
The whiskey was getting to him. He felt drowsy, the battle-ready hostility he’d felt all evening damping down under the warm weight of the liquor. He didn’t want to fall asleep until he heard Dartmouth’s car leave, but he closed his eyes anyway. Dartmouth. What an ass.
He smiled again in the darkness. When had he picked up the fine art of cursing?
Calla dragged her lower lip between her teeth to keep from shouting at him. Calla was a shouter; everyone who’d ever known her knew it. On cattle drives, her temper was legendary. Let a calf go back, and you’ll face the sad consequences of Calla’s temper, her brother had always warned the cowboys.
But she’d been careful never to raise her voice to Clark before. His New England sensibilities couldn’t take it.
“I don’t know, exactly, Clark,” she said, as softly as she could manage. “I just know that we’ve been going together for about a year now, and you have never once called me by anything but my name.” She was losing control. She could feel it, but she didn’t care. “But tonight, with Henry here acting, admittedly, like a big fool, you called me everything but…” Calla searched for a vile enough word “…lovergirl! And you patted me on the ass, Clark!”
“Calla, I’ve talked to you about your swearing.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Calla!”
“I mean it, Clark. Take your feet off my table and hit the road.” She stomped into the hallway, flicking the switch on the wall as she passed. The kitchen, and Clark, were plunged into the sudden blackness of a moonless Idaho night.
* * *
Henry had the bunkhouse to himself. Lester was obviously in town on a drunk. He was grateful. If the old man had laughed at him tonight, in that raspy, wheezy way he had that made him sound like a cartoon dog, Henry would have had to kill him.
Dammit! Henry paced across the small room. Dammit!
He couldn’t have handled that situation any worse if he’d tried. Calla, this very minute, was probably swearing him up and down. If she wasn’t busy kissing Dartmouth. Dammit!
Who the hell was this woman? He’d known her all of two weeks, had maybe five conversations with her, kissed her one time, one time! Was it logical to be this riled up at the thought of her kissing the man she was fully intending to marry? No. It was not logical.
He flung himself onto his bunk like a teenage boy in a fit of temper.
It was more than a kiss. He hadn’t had time to really go over it in his mind. He’d been gripped by such a strange, debilitating rage when he’d seen Calla hop that fence and walk over to meet Dartmouth that it was all he could do to keep himself from challenging the shinny bastard to a duel at sunrise. With swords, something he could use to draw a good amount of blood.
He couldn’t think at all, much less clearly, a terrifyingly unfamiliar state for him to be in. He’d simply walked back to the bunkhouse, showered in the narrow bathroom stall, and plotted how to disrupt what he imagined was going to be a quiet family dinner.
He’d certainly done that, he thought with a small groan. He’d made a complete fool of himself. He tried to focus on that. Humiliation was certainly a new experience for him, but it was at least manageable. He didn’t want to have to think about the more emotional complications tonight’s outburst might entail.
He crossed his arms behind his head, concentrating for a moment on what had happened before the disastrous dinner. It was easy, too easy. Calla’s mouth, Calla’s breasts, the smooth, strong feel of her under his fingers. He felt himself relax a little. The four or five glasses of whiskey probably helped, he thought.
Calla had tasted better than he could have imagined; warm and sweaty and sweet. Her mouth had opened to him. He’d known it would. And her body. Had he ever pressed himself against anyone so curvy, so sexy, so firm and fluid?
The whiskey was getting to him. He felt drowsy, the battle-ready hostility he’d felt all evening damping down under the warm weight of the liquor. He didn’t want to fall asleep until he heard Dartmouth’s car leave, but he closed his eyes anyway. Dartmouth. What an ass.
He smiled again in the darkness. When had he picked up the fine art of cursing?
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