Running Blind (24 page)

“Like I want to work at this shit-hole end of nowhere,” Darby snarled back, his voice thick. There was the sound of spitting. “I’m gonna file charges against you for assault.”

“Assault, my ass,” someone else said contemptuously. Eli. “I saw you trip and fall out of your own damn truck.”

“Yeah. And I remember you bragging to all of us how you might stage an accident and sue the boss.” That was Bo.

“You lying sons of bitches!”

“I didn’t hear them say a single lie,” Spencer put in from the door, his innocent face as virtuous as a nun’s.

“I’ll help you pack.” That was Kenneth. “You just stand out here and I’ll throw your shit out the door. You can pick it up. I bet you can be on the road in ten minutes.”

Carlin thought she might cry. In true western fashion, these men had come to her rescue. Zeke had gotten into a fight because of her—no, not because of
her
, but because Darby was an asshole jerk. Regardless, he’d gotten into a fight on her behalf. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss all of them. And she’d try her damnedest not to cry, because that would only make the men uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t going to do nothing she didn’t want,” Darby said sullenly, and outrage brought her surging to her feet, wobbly knees forgotten.

Walt shot her an alarmed look and wedged himself in the door, effectively blocking it. “Yeah,” he said contemptuously to Darby. “That’s why she had two knives in her hands, right?”

She could hear angry muttering from the other men, and something defensive from Darby, but with all the
muttering she couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, which was probably for the best.

Abruptly she was very tired, and wanted nothing more than to get back to the house. She’d just as soon not ever have to see Darby again, but she wasn’t going to run out the back door as if she had done something to be ashamed of. “It’s okay,” she said to Walt’s back. “He’s a jerk, but I’m okay, and I just want to go to the house and get dinner started.”

Walt glanced over his shoulder, critically eyed her as if judging her state for himself, and gave a brief nod of approval. “All right, then,” he said, stepping aside.

Carlin gathered her cleaning supplies and went out the door, looking each man in the eye and saying a quiet “Thank you.” Two of the men stood with Zeke behind them, presumably because they weren’t yet certain he wouldn’t light into Darby again. She got a good look at his face, though; the damage didn’t look too bad, one cheek was reddened and might swell, but that was about it. Darby hadn’t come off nearly as well, but so what. She didn’t give a damn what kind of shape he was in, which might say something about her as a person, but right at the moment she didn’t give a damn about that, either.

Then she stopped and looked at Zeke again, eyeing him critically. What was nothing but a red place now could become an awful bruise if it wasn’t iced immediately.

“You need to come to the house, too,” she said briskly. “Put some ice on your face.”

“His hands will need it more.” Spencer fell into step beside her, taking the bucket of cleaning supplies in his good hand.

That made sense. Zeke hadn’t moved, so she stopped, gave him a death stare, and lifted her eyebrows. She didn’t want to say anything else in front of the men; while she got an evil enjoyment out of being a smart-ass to him
when no one else could hear, in front of the men she at least acted the way a normal employee would.

“Spencer’s right,” Walt said. “If you don’t ice your hands, they’ll be too sore tomorrow for you to get any work done.”

That commonsense argument worked when general bullheadedness might have kept Zeke there until Darby had packed up and left. He wasn’t as pale as he had been but his jaw still looked like granite, his lips a thin grim line, and she sensed it wouldn’t take much to reignite him. Icing him down was a good thing, in more ways than one.

“Come on,” she said, and he followed her and Spencer to the house.

C
ARLIN COULDN’T SLEEP
. The wind was howling, bringing colder weather with it, but it was more than the wind keeping her awake. Dinner had been strange, with an underlying tension despite Darby’s absence. Their group chemistry had been upset, and even though Darby hadn’t been a particular friend to any of them, they’d generally accepted his complaining and gotten along with him. No one joked around, the way they normally did. On the other hand, no one seemed to particularly miss him, so Carlin decided everyone simply needed some time to settle down.

The knuckles of both Zeke’s hands were scraped and bruised, though thanks to sessions of soaking them in bowls of ice water the swelling was minimal. He could flex both hands, and make fists, so no bones were broken. His left cheekbone had some puffiness to it, but again a judicious application of ice had done wonders.

The idea that Zeke had gotten into a fight for her—
that
was what was bothering her. After Brad, she simply
hadn’t been tempted by any kind of relationship, but Zeke was kind of the antidote for Brad. Brad threatened her; Zeke protected her. Under those same circumstances she thought he’d have stepped up for any woman, not just for her, and that in itself made her heart hurt because it spoke to the kind of man he was.

But it wasn’t just that. There was fire between them, fire that was becoming more and more difficult for her to ignore. It would be so much easier if she didn’t occasionally catch him looking at her in a way that revealed too much, with a hooded intensity that took her breath. When she caught some men mentally stripping her, she felt annoyed, as if they were encroaching on her privacy even if they never said anything. When she caught Zeke doing the X-ray vision thing, it made her breathless, warm, and restless in her own skin.

Since he’d startled her in his bedroom and she’d found herself lying beneath him, wanting what she couldn’t have, feeling that he wanted the same thing, the temptation had grown sharper.

She should’ve left this place weeks ago.

She could leave now. Tonight.

But she wouldn’t. She was caught in a balancing act: this was a safe haven from Brad, she was socking away money, and damned if she didn’t like what she was doing. On the other side of the seesaw was the emotional cost of staying here, and that cost was growing larger with time. There had to be a tipping point, but she could only trust that she’d know when that time came, when she sensed the cost of staying outweighed the benefits. That was when she’d move on.

But right now, she had to deal with her sleeplessness. No matter what had happened today, in the morning she still had to get up at the same friggin’ ungodly hour to start breakfast. She needed to relax, settle her mind.

She threw back the covers and stepped into the warm slippers that were sitting beside her bed, then grabbed the bathrobe that hung over the footboard and headed for the door with great purpose. There was one piece of apple pie left. That and a glass of milk would help her get to sleep. And if not, well, she’d be sleepless and happy instead of sleepless and fretful. Maybe it wasn’t a win-win, but it definitely rated a win.

There was a nightlight in the hallway, another in the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the sound of the buffeting wind. Zeke was an early riser, which meant he went to bed early, too; he’d probably been asleep for a couple of hours. It was unlikely that he could hear her from his upstairs bedroom, but still, she made an effort to be quiet as she raided the fridge.

She sat at the small kitchen table with the last piece of apple pie, a fork, and a small glass of milk. The simple task of gathering the midnight snack hadn’t stopped her mind from spinning, and it certainly hadn’t done anything to settle the wind, but still … apple pie would make everything better.

She didn’t hear him coming, didn’t have a clue, but without warning he was there, looming in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, filling the space and charging the air with the electricity that seemed to be part of his aura. When he entered a room, he
owned
it, somehow.

He stopped in the doorway, surprise flitting across his face. Of course he was surprised; if he’d expected her to be in the kitchen, he probably wouldn’t have come down in nothing except a pair of jeans, which told her he didn’t sleep in pajamas—but then, she already knew that, because she did his laundry, and there had never been even a pair of sleep pants. Whether he slept naked or in his boxers, she didn’t know, and damn, she sure
wished her mind hadn’t gone there, because,
damn
, he looked good. No shoes, no shirt. Long and lean and hard. He hadn’t worked out in a gym for those muscles, he’d gotten them the old-fashioned way, with hard labor. The bare skin on his shoulders gleamed, his arms were sinewy and thick with ropes of muscles, his big hands rough with calluses, the knuckles raw from the fight that afternoon—

This time she didn’t panic; panic was the furthest thing from her mind. She looked at him and had to swallow hard, because she knew what those muscles felt like, knew how his skin smelled, how warm, how heavy he was—oh, thank God for the pie, because it gave her an excuse for swallowing again. Her mouth was literally watering.

“Sorry,” he said, and then he turned to go back the way he’d come.

“Wait.” She knew she shouldn’t have said it. Bad idea. The smartest thing would be for him to go back to bed. Maybe she could forget what he looked like, barefoot and shirtless. Maybe she could forget how he smelled. Yeah, and maybe she’d find a magic wand under her bed and she could wave it around and all her troubles would be gone.

But this was his house, after all, and she really shouldn’t run him out of his own kitchen, even if she considered it her kitchen, for the duration.

He stopped, turned. The light from his new position didn’t offer as tempting a view, since he was almost entirely in shadow, which was just as well, she supposed. She swallowed another excess of saliva. “What do you need?”

He gave a short, sharp exhale, not quite a snort. “I came down for that last piece of apple pie. You beat me to it, fair and square.” She heard the soft humor in his voice. There was none of the bite she often heard when he gave her a hard time.

“It’s a big piece. I’m happy to share.” Before he could protest she got up and fetched an extra plate from the cabinet. She grabbed another fork, too, and a knife to cut the pie in half. “Milk?” she asked. He wasn’t much of a milk drinker, but there was no decaf coffee made.

“I’ll get it.”

He poured a glass while she returned to the table, cut the piece of pie in half, and slid the bigger half to another place—one on the other side of the table. Zeke sat, flicked an assessing look between their two slices of pie, winked at her, and then dug in. Carlin found herself playing with her pie, taking a small bite, flaking the crust with a tine of her fork. Jesus God, he’d
winked
at her. No flirting! She couldn’t allow flirting.

The wind picked up, a gust howling like a wolf as it swirled around the house. “The wind is something else,” she said.

“Cold front,” he replied.

“I figured as much.”

“Supposed to be snow by the end of the week.”

Oh good lord, she was sitting in the dimly lit kitchen at midnight with a half-naked man who made her forget that she should be on the move, who made her mouth water, who drove her crazy in more ways than she could count, and they were talking about the
weather
. How pitiful was that? And even more pitiful was that she was
grateful
they were just talking about the weather.

“I’ve never seen much snow.” Unless flurries counted—and rare flurries, at that. She still couldn’t believe that she, who loved sun and beaches, was about to willingly go through a Wyoming winter.

He made a sound that might’ve been a half laugh. “That’s about to change.” His gaze lifted, hard green lasers boring into her. “You’re not going to run, are you?”

How had he guessed that every day she was more and
more torn? She wanted to be here, she did, so much that she was becoming more and more afraid to stay. She tried for a nonchalant tone. “I thought you didn’t want me here. Spencer will be out of his sling in a few days, and he can always—”

“Just promise me you’re not going to run.”

Carlin picked at her pie, took a small bite, chased it with some milk. She could feel Zeke looking at her. She could feel him waiting. “No,” she finally answered. “I won’t promise. But I’ll do my best to stay until spring.” That was as close to a promise, and a warning, as she could get.

She finished her pie and milk, took her plate and fork and glass to the sink, rinsed them out, and left them for when she ran the dishwasher after breakfast. So much for a nice, relaxing piece of pie. So much for getting to sleep anytime soon. The man she worked for had worked his way under her skin, and she liked it. Damnation.

And then he was there, moving silently on bare feet, placing his dishes in the sink beside hers. He was so close she could feel his body heat, and she could swear every little hair on her body was standing at attention. It was like electricity was running through her veins, like her insides had turned to fire and ice. She waited for him to move away, but he didn’t. He just stood there, close, warm, a temptation.

She turned her head and looked up. She wasn’t sure why, but she was compelled. It was like the stupid girl going down into the dark basement in the slasher movies. He was right there, that bare chest was
right there
. She could lean forward just a few inches and put her mouth on him, taste him.… She squirmed, but didn’t move away, not even when Zeke’s head moved toward hers, his focus on her mouth, his intent so clear she had plenty of time to back away, to tell him to stop … but she didn’t.

He kissed her.
Kiss
was much too simple a word for what happened, much too small a word for the powerful connection that rocked her to her core. She felt that kiss in her toes, in the top of her head, all through her body. She felt alive, really alive, for the first time in a long while. With his mouth on hers she wasn’t thinking about running, the howling wind, the coming snow, or Brad or Jina or painful regrets. She didn’t
think
at all. She just felt.