Read Online The Widow and the Wildcatter: A Loveswept Classic Romance by Fran Baker - Free Book Online
Authors: Fran Baker
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together, but her thoughts ran wild and free. Every time he took a curve, causing her to lean closer to him, she wondered what it would be like to have that muscular torso crushing her into the mattress. Whenever the wind whipped her freshly shampooed hair across her eyes, she remembered the luscious curly hair on his chest.
The air smelled of life in all its glory. Roadside wildflowers filled the highway with their heady scent. The moon topped redbuds and dogwoods in full bloom.
Spring was right in the middle of resurrecting flora and feeling, while Joni and Chance were completing a cycle begun by their grandfathers. Once he hit pay dirt, he’d pack up and leave. She knew that as well as she knew her own name. And she wondered what sort of winter would follow on the heels of his departure.
“We must be getting close,” Chance said, his thigh muscles rippling under his jeans as he began applying the brakes. “I hear music.”
Joni heard it too. She forced herself to ignore his leg rubbing against hers and looked straight ahead. “It’s just around the bend. Turn left at the service road and follow it until you get to the circle of headlights.”
Back when cattle was king and railroad was queen, the crossroads had been an important link to the outside world. Ranchers had come from miles around, bringing their livestock to be loaded and shipped all over the country. The low three-toned wail of the train whistle had carried the guarantee of prime beef raised by hardworking individuals rather than heartless corporations.
Nowadays, the crossroads sat empty and useless, abandoned in the name of progress. Cattle trucks and tankers did their
yeeowwing
on concrete instead of on cracked asphalt. Tourists bypassed dust bowl museums in favor of Disneyland, and even the farmers found it more convenient to use the highway.
But every Saturday night, weather permitting, everybody and his uncle gathered at the crossroads, circling their pickups as their pioneer ancestorshad circled their wagons. Campfires had given way to headlights and fiddles to truck radios, but the people still did their dancing under the stars.
Chance drove around in search of a parking place, finally finding one between a rebuilt El Camino and a rusting Ford Ranchero. “For a county that’s in the throes of a depression, they sure turn out a happy-go-lucky crowd.”
Joni experienced a flash of regret when he released her to cut the engine, a reaction she quickly quelled. Needing the space, she slid back over to the passenger side. “It’s fun and it’s free.”
“What more could a body want?” He left his headlights on and tuned his radio to the same country music station that everyone else was tuned to.
“A hairbrush,” she remarked wryly, trying to fingercomb her hopelessly wind-tangled hair.
“In the glove compartment,” he directed her, fiddling with the volume knob on the dashboard.
“Thanks, but …” She wasn’t too keen on the idea of using someone else’s hairbrush.
“Don’t worry,” he said perceptively, “it’s yours.”
She glanced at his dark profile against the glow of the other headlights. “Mine?”
“When I was helping Grandpa in the downstairs bathroom, I saw it sitting on the shelf.” He sat back and gave her that lazy grin that never failed to jump-start her heart. “I figured you’d refuse the scarf, so while Diamond Jim Brady was stacking the deck, I stuck your hairbrush in the glove compartment.”
“I see.” She pasted on a bright smile and got her brush out, but the thought of him handling her personal things made her insides feel like taffy melting in the sun.
“Here.” Chance reached over and took the hairbrush from her unresisting fingers. “Let me.”
Joni started to refuse, but the firm set of his jaw told her that he would brook no argument. She presented him her back, her pulses thrumming in time to the three-chord country song rising and falling and filling the night.
One long, slow
The air smelled of life in all its glory. Roadside wildflowers filled the highway with their heady scent. The moon topped redbuds and dogwoods in full bloom.
Spring was right in the middle of resurrecting flora and feeling, while Joni and Chance were completing a cycle begun by their grandfathers. Once he hit pay dirt, he’d pack up and leave. She knew that as well as she knew her own name. And she wondered what sort of winter would follow on the heels of his departure.
“We must be getting close,” Chance said, his thigh muscles rippling under his jeans as he began applying the brakes. “I hear music.”
Joni heard it too. She forced herself to ignore his leg rubbing against hers and looked straight ahead. “It’s just around the bend. Turn left at the service road and follow it until you get to the circle of headlights.”
Back when cattle was king and railroad was queen, the crossroads had been an important link to the outside world. Ranchers had come from miles around, bringing their livestock to be loaded and shipped all over the country. The low three-toned wail of the train whistle had carried the guarantee of prime beef raised by hardworking individuals rather than heartless corporations.
Nowadays, the crossroads sat empty and useless, abandoned in the name of progress. Cattle trucks and tankers did their
yeeowwing
on concrete instead of on cracked asphalt. Tourists bypassed dust bowl museums in favor of Disneyland, and even the farmers found it more convenient to use the highway.
But every Saturday night, weather permitting, everybody and his uncle gathered at the crossroads, circling their pickups as their pioneer ancestorshad circled their wagons. Campfires had given way to headlights and fiddles to truck radios, but the people still did their dancing under the stars.
Chance drove around in search of a parking place, finally finding one between a rebuilt El Camino and a rusting Ford Ranchero. “For a county that’s in the throes of a depression, they sure turn out a happy-go-lucky crowd.”
Joni experienced a flash of regret when he released her to cut the engine, a reaction she quickly quelled. Needing the space, she slid back over to the passenger side. “It’s fun and it’s free.”
“What more could a body want?” He left his headlights on and tuned his radio to the same country music station that everyone else was tuned to.
“A hairbrush,” she remarked wryly, trying to fingercomb her hopelessly wind-tangled hair.
“In the glove compartment,” he directed her, fiddling with the volume knob on the dashboard.
“Thanks, but …” She wasn’t too keen on the idea of using someone else’s hairbrush.
“Don’t worry,” he said perceptively, “it’s yours.”
She glanced at his dark profile against the glow of the other headlights. “Mine?”
“When I was helping Grandpa in the downstairs bathroom, I saw it sitting on the shelf.” He sat back and gave her that lazy grin that never failed to jump-start her heart. “I figured you’d refuse the scarf, so while Diamond Jim Brady was stacking the deck, I stuck your hairbrush in the glove compartment.”
“I see.” She pasted on a bright smile and got her brush out, but the thought of him handling her personal things made her insides feel like taffy melting in the sun.
“Here.” Chance reached over and took the hairbrush from her unresisting fingers. “Let me.”
Joni started to refuse, but the firm set of his jaw told her that he would brook no argument. She presented him her back, her pulses thrumming in time to the three-chord country song rising and falling and filling the night.
One long, slow
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