Heiress (21 page)

Abbie could tell just by looking at them that they were too big and too long, but she put them on anyway and rolled up the pant legs. She felt like one of those clowns in baggy pants, and judging by the gleam in MacCrea's eyes, she looked like one, too.

But he was right: the floor of the rig around the hole was slopped with the grayish mud. There was relatively little activity at the moment. MacCrea introduced her to the driller, who operated the drilling machinery from his control console and supervised the work of the other floormen. She met a couple of the rotary helpers, too, known as roughnecks in the old days.

MacCrea attempted to explain some of the equipment and its uses, but by the time he got done talking about monkey-boards, catheads, ratholes, catwalks, and mouseholes, Abbie wasn't sure whether she was on a drilling rig or at a zoo.

Her head was pounding from the noise, heat, and mental confusion when they finally descended the steps back to the ground. She felt the guiding pressure of his hand between her shoulders and glanced up, wondering what he could possibly want to show her now. He pointed at the near trailer. She walked to it gladly.

As he opened the door for her, she felt the blessed coolness of air-conditioning and practically ran inside. There she paused and gratefully swept off the hot helmet and her sweatband, shaking her damp hair loose with a toss of her head. As the door closed behind her, muffling most of the rig's noise, the telephone on the desk started ringing. Abbie stepped out of the way as. MacCrea walked over to answer it.

"Wilder Drilling."

Abbie unzipped the protective coveralls as she glanced around the Spartan office. A pair of filing cabinets stood against the wall behind his desk. A Naugahyde sofa that showed the abuse of the drill site faced it from the opposite wall. Two straight-backed chairs completed the furnishings. The paneled walls were blank except for a framed photograph propped against the paneling on top of a filing cabinet.

"Yeah, Red. Just a minute." MacCrea covered the phone's mouthpiece with his hand. "There's not a lot I can offer you in the way of refreshments, but there's a little kitchen through that door. The coffee in the pot is probably black syrup by now. If you want to make fresh, go ahead. There's beer in the refrigerator and a jar of instant tea in the cupboard. Help yourself."

"Thanks." Abbie stepped out of the coveralls and laid them across one of the straight chairs, her own clothes ticking to her skin.

The trailer rocked slightly as she crossed to the door, already partway ajar, and pushed it the rest of the way open. The cupboards, range top, and sink took up one short wall in the compact kitchen, with the refrigerator against the opposite wall. A table and two chairs took up the rest of the floor space. Beyond the kitchen a door leading to the rear of the trailer stood open. Unable to resist the opportunity to explore, Abbie peeked to see what was back there.

A bed, its covers all rumpled, hugged one wall. Opposite it was a built-in dresser next to a closet. Beyond it the door to a small bathroom stood open. She realized MacCrea had been serious when he said he lived here.

In the kitchen she fixed herself a glass of iced tea, then, on impulse, made one for MacCrea, adding sugar to both, and carried them into the office. He smiled his thanks when she handed it to him and took a long drink before continuing his conversation on the telephone.

Sipping at her own, Abbie wandered over to take a closer look at the photograph on the filing cabinet. A much younger MacCrea smiled back at her, minus the mustache he now wore. She was struck by the differences between the MacCrea she knew and the one in this picture. An occasional lazy gleam had replaced the laughter shining out of the dark eyes in the photograph. The same lean, strong features were in the picture, but they hadn't been honed to a hardness yet; the lines and creases were missing. She had no impression of determination or inner toughness when she looked at this younger version of MacCrea. This one had the world by the tail, and was ready to whip it into shape.

Curious, she shifted her attention to the older man who MacCrea had his arm around. He, too, grinned proudly at her, almost hiding the tiredness in his weathered face. Abbie saw the resemblance between them, and realized the older man had to be MacCrea's father. The love between them was obvious to anyone looking at the photograph. Abbie felt a sudden stab of envy, followed by a twisting pain from her own loss—a loss rooted in more than just the death of her father, but in the bitter discovery and disillusionment that came after as well.

"Yeah, I'll talk to you later, Red." MacCrea hung up the phone, the chair squeaking as he pushed out of it. Abbie continued to stare at the photograph, giving herself time to control that sudden surge of resentment.

"That's your father, isn't it?" The ice cubes clinked in her glass as she used the hand holding it to indicate the picture.

"Yes. It was taken a month before he died." Taking a drink from his tea, MacCrea turned away from the filing cabinet and the photograph. Again, Abbie noticed the total lack of emotion in his voice when he referred to his father or, more specifically, his death. She sensed it was something he didn't like to discuss. "Sorry about the interruption. That was my toolpusher on another site, filling me in on their progress."

"A toolpusher." She felt inundated by the flood of new terms she'd heard in the last two hours. She was amazed by how much she'd thought she knew about the oil business, when she actually knew practically nothing.

"A toolpusher is in charge of the entire drilling operation and coordinates everything with the company man. That's temporarily my job here," he explained. "My regular man is in the hospital with a broken leg. Normally I'm not tied to one site like this."

Abbie caught herself watching his lips when he talked. Slightly disconcerted that she had allowed the practice to carry over from the tour of the drilling operation, she quickly averted her glance, focusing it instead on the iced-tea glass in his hand. Immediately she noticed the peculiar crooking of his little finger, its suggestion of daintiness completely at odds with the smooth toughness conveyed by the rest of him.

"Why does your little finger bend like that?" She thought it might have been broken at some time.

"This?" He glanced down at it, his mouth quirking, tilting one side of his mustache as he lifted a shoulder in a shrug of indifference. "I was born with a shortened tendon in the first joint. It's a family trait."

"I wondered," she admitted, smiling.

The trailer door opened behind them, letting in the noise from outside. As Abbie turned toward it, one of the roughnecks poked his head inside. "We got a kick, boss."

In the next second, MacCrea was brushing past her, shoving his tea glass on the desktop and grabbing up his hard hat as he went by. "Does the company know?"

"Not yet," the roughneck replied, pulling back as MacCrea charged out the door.

"Tell him," MacCrea ordered, his tone sharp and abrupt.

She didn't understand what was going on. Why had he sent for the company man? Had they hit oil? Intrigued by the possibility, she hurried to the door before it swung shut, reaching it in time to see MacCrea bounding up the steps to the rig floor, covering them two at a time. Abbie started to run after him, then remembered she didn't have her safety helmet on. When she went back for it, she saw the coveralls on the chair. She hesitated briefly, then pulled them on over her clothes and hurried out the door, still struggling with the stubborn zipper.

By the time she reached the raised metal platform, MacCrea was standing off to one side, holding a conference with the company man, Kruse, and the mud engineer. Everyone else seemed to be just standing around, waiting. Then Abbie noticed that the level of noise had fallen off and saw that the rotary table wasn't turning. She realized they'd stopped drilling. But she still didn't know what that meant.

She walked over to MacCrea to ask him. None of the three men paid any attention to her at first, too intent on their discussion, which was totally beyond her limited knowledge. MacCrea glanced briefly in her direction, his brow furrowed in concentration as he kept his attention focused on the mud man.

Suddenly he shot another look at her, and recognition turned into anger. "What the hell are you doing here?" In two strides, he had her by the arm.

"I was just—" Abbie tried to explain as he roughly spun her around and propelled her toward the stairs.

"You get back to that trailer and you stay there! Do you read me, lady?"

"Yes, I—" She was stunned by the anger that seethed from him, as palpable as the sun's burning heat.

"Then get going," he snapped, shoving her down the steps.

Abbie grabbed at the rail to stop herself from falling, wrenching the muscles in her left shoulder and arm in the process. When she regained her footing, MacCrea was gone. Embarrassed that others had witnessed her rude eviction from the premises, Abbie ran the rest of the way down the steps and walked back to the trailer, holding herself stiffly erect.

The minute she set foot inside the trailer, she rubbed her aching arm and nursed her wounded ego, her embarrassment turning to indignant anger. She stripped off the coveralls and the hard hat, dumping them both on top of his desk. She started pacing about the room, letting her anger build.

Abbie had no idea how long she waited in the trailer before he returned, but she knew it was a long time—more than enough time for her to have cooled off, but she hadn't. She was boiling mad when he opened the door and walked in.

She didn't even give him time to shut it before she launched into him. "Just who the hell do you think you are, pushing me around like that?" He looked tired and hot, sweat making dark spots on the front of his coveralls and under his arms, but she didn't care.

"You had no business being there," he muttered, shouldering his way by her, barely even glancing at her.

"And just how was I supposed to know that?" She followed him, addressing her demanding question to his back as he swept off his hard hat and combed his fingers through the curly thickness of his dark hair. "You never said anything to me. You just barged out of here without so much as a word to me."

MacCrea swung around, glowering at her. "Dammit, you heard Pete say we had a kick!"

"You had a kick." She longed to give him one. "Hasn't it occurred to you that I don't know what that is? And I still don't. But did you bother to explain? No. You—"

"So it's another damned lesson you want, is it? Well, honey, you damned near got more than that. A well 'kicks' just before it blows out. Have you ever seen a well blow?"

Taken aback by his explanation, and the danger it implied, Abbie lost some of her anger. "No. But I've heard—" she began, considerably subdued.

"You've heard," he mocked sarcastically. "Well, honey, I've seen. And let me tell you, it isn't a pretty sight. You don't know what's down in that hole—gas, saltwater, or oil—or maybe all three. And you don't know how much pressure it's packing. Whether it's got enough to blow you and your rig sky-high. Or if it's gonna be a ball of fire. You could have been standing on a damned powder keg out there."

"Well, I obviously wasn't," Abbie retorted. "I'm still standing here. Nothing happened."

"Nothing happened." He repeated her words through clenched teeth as he seized the undersides of her jaws, the heel of his hand pressing itself against her throat. For an instant, Abbie was too startled to resist. "I ought to—"

"Wring your neck" was what she expected him to say, but it never came out as he suddenly crushed his mouth onto her lips, brutally grinding them against her teeth, shocking her into immobility. After interminable seconds, the pressure eased. Short of breath and with racing heartbeat, Abbie waited for his mouth to lift from hers. But it lingered there, motionless, maintaining a light contact but nothing more. Cautiously, she looked at him through her lashes. He was watching her, the fiery blackness in his eyes reduced to a smoldering light that strangely bothered her more than his anger.

Then he broke all contact and turned, stepping away from her. He stopped with his back to her and sighed heavily, his hands resting on his hips. "Would it make any difference if I apologized?" he asked, almost grudgingly.

"Only if you choked on it." She was trembling, but she was faking her anger now.

"Good." He swung around to face her, his features set in grim lines. "I won't have to say something I don't mean. The method I used to get you off the drilling floor might not have been polite, but you have to admit it was effective. And I didn't have to waste a lot of time on explanations—time I couldn't afford. As for kissing you—"

"That wasn't a kiss."

"Maybe it wasn't," he conceded. "But you wouldn't have liked the alternative any better. I have enough problems right now out there without getting the riot act read to me by you all because of your damned ignorance and hurt pride. So if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do."

As he turned and opened one of the file-cabinet drawers, Abbie walked blindly out the door, stung by the things he'd said and hating him for making her feel so wretched, when he'd been the one at fault.

Chapter 12

Awed by the expensive decor in the penthouse, Rachel wandered into the spacious living room, artfully done in a subtle blending of gray, peach, and cream. It was like something out of the decorating magazines, everything precisely arranged with an eye for symmetry and balance. Nothing gaudy or overdone, just an understated elegance.

Her glance was drawn to the large windows that overlooked the city. Rachel walked over to them, anticipating the panoramic view of Houston at sunset, the glass-walled towers reflecting the sky's fuchsia hues, and the first dull glow of the streetlights far below.

"What do you think?" Lane came to stand beside her.

"Breathtaking," she said, then looked at him and smiled. "And fitting, too, to have Houston at your feet."

"I don't know about that last part," he replied.

His modesty was sincere. During the few times she'd seen him, Rachel had discovered that was one of his traits. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that this was only the third time she'd seen him, counting the funeral. The feeling was so strong that she'd always known him. She admired that confidence he exuded, never overtly, always calmly. She liked him. Sometimes she worried that she liked him too much.