Early November, northern Montana
The first time Gil Sanchez drove west into Glacier County and came upon the Rockies, he had the distinct impression that the earth was baring her teeth at him. Over a year and a dozen visits later, standing at their feet still made him twitchy. As a native Texan he’d seen nature turn homicidal often enough—tornadoes, wildfires, blizzards—but in the Panhandle the land itself wasn’t designed to rip a man to pieces and feed the scraps to the nearest grizzly bear.
He scowled up at the impassive peaks and cliffs, but the mountains didn’t give a single damn about how he felt. Their attitude, at least, he could appreciate.
If all went as planned, this would be the last time they loomed over him. The lost boy he’d come here to help had found his way through the worst of his so-called dark night of the soul. Most of Hank’s recovery was thanks to the woman called Bing, who’d hauled Hank out of a Yakima, Washington, hospital and brought him here to heal, body and soul. Now Bing had decided it was time for him to go home—and Gil was here to make sure it happened.
Gil wriggled on the sleeper bunk of his eighteen-wheeler, too restless for the confined space. Back home he would’ve hit the weight room to work off the jittery tension. Here he couldn’t even go for a nighttime jog without the risk of being wolf bait. And he would not have parked across the road from the Stockman’s Bar if he’d had any idea it would be this lively on a night long after nearly everything else around Glacier National Park had buttoned up for the winter.
Across the road, the rumble of vehicles pulling into the parking lot and the swelling cacophony of voices and laughter drew his attention away from the mobile app that allowed him to monitor the progress of other Sanchez trucks across the nation. The noise stirred up his already-too-alert senses and made him…want. Finally, he set the phone aside with a hiss of impatience.
Of course he wanted to join the party. It was his default setting, especially if there was alcohol involved. But he no longer craved the company of any random human who’d drink with him. For the most part he didn’t crave the company of humans at all, with a few notable exceptions. And he’d learned there was no loneliness worse than being unknown in a crowd.
So why was he so compelled to cross this road, join this crowd? Distraction? That was safe enough in the form of people-watching and random conversation with a few of the locals. Escape? That was dicier if it meant putting himself in a place where over a dozen years of sobriety could end with a wave at the bartender.
No. It wasn’t the company. And his fingers weren’t itching to curl around a cold beer bottle. Tonight the music tugged at him…the unmistakable sound of a live band. But it wouldn’t be the first time his addiction had tried to pull a bait and switch, so he stewed for a full hour before cursing roundly and yanking on his boots.
A neon-pink poster on the door declared that the festivities were meant to raise money to help offset medical expenses for a woman who’d undergone heart valve replacement, requiring an extended stay in Seattle. The silent auction promised work by local artists, so if nothing else, Gil might be able to pick up a couple of interesting Christmas presents.
Still, he hesitated, until the door opened and a couple stepped out, shooting him a curious glance as they angled past.
The familiar wall of noise hit him—the soundtrack of every western bar in the country. These voices had the distinctive, blunt accent of the Northern Plains tribes, and most of the faces were at least as dark as his own. To an outsider he could pass as one of them but this wasn’t his clan. Then again, as his maternal grandfather had regularly pointed out, he wasn’t much of a Navajo either.
But he was known. Recognition sparked in many of the eyes that swiveled in his direction. A person didn’t come and go in an eighteen wheeler with Sanchez Trucking painted on the doors without being noticed, especially if their brother was a two-time world-champion bareback rider. If Gil had still been a drinking man, he could’ve milked Delon’s fame for a few free rounds…or more, judging by some of the appraising glances the women shot him.
Definitely not going there.
He made his way to the bar, ordered a Coke, and dropped a fifty-dollar bill into a donation can before sidling over to lean against one of the peeled pine columns at the edge of the dance floor. Curious gazes followed him, but no one worked up the nerve to speak to him…yet. Gil avoided eye contact and dialed up what his brother called his resting prick face, hoping to keep it that way.
Nope. Not here for the company. Just the noise, the music, and something to drag him outside of his own head.
The song ended, followed by a drumroll and a crash of cymbals. The lead singer leaned into the mic. “And now a rare treat! Tonight only, here is the lovely Carmelita!”
The crowd cheered as a woman—somewhere around thirty, Gil estimated—stepped onto the floor wearing a short fringed-and-beaded buckskin jacket and matching midcalf moccasins over a body-hugging black dress and black leggings. Her ebony hair was pulled into a thick, straight tail that reached the middle of her back, her face nearly round, but her brows and mouth sketched in bold lines. Murmurs rustled through the crowd, and Gil caught the distinct aroma of ripe gossip.
Her chin came up and she flashed a smile, wide and bright, that was the equivalent of a stiff middle finger. Well, now. This was getting interesting. Gil took a sip of his Coke and settled more comfortably against the column, prepared to enjoy the show.
She dropped two ropes near her feet and built a small loop in the shortest. A trick roper. Nice. There weren’t as many as there used to be, although the art seemed to be making a comeback. The band struck up a decent version of “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” and with a flick of her wrist, she set the small loop dancing around her in a series of pirouettes and launched into a fairly standard routine. Well executed, but nothing Gil hadn’t seen before.
On the opposite side of Gil’s leaning post, a man drawled, “First time I’ve seen her out and about since Jayden dumped her. S’pose she’s ready to give someone else a shot?”
“Like you?” A second man snorted his skepticism.
“She might be a little less particular after supportin’ his ass all those years, then gettin’ swapped for a hot little blond soon as he made the Finals.”
“Don’t mean she’ll look twice at anybody else around here.”
The first man grunted, half in annoyance, half in agreement.
Jayden. The name would’ve been familiar if the guy had qualified for the upcoming National Finals Rodeo in any of the roughstock events, but Gil didn’t pay much attention to the ropers. Like a whole lot of cowboys who got a taste of success, though, this Jayden must’ve decided he could do better than the girl back home.
Watching Carmelita perform with that diamond-bright smile firmly in place, Gil felt a twinge of sympathy…until her gaze snapped to his, dark and fierce. Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.
What the hell? Gil glanced over his shoulder to see if she might be glaring at someone else. No. It was definitely him. He could swear his expression hadn’t changed, but she had singled him out as if she knew what he was thinking.
What the hell?
She abruptly spun around and tossed the short rope in the corner, plucking the longest one from where she’d left it on the floor. The band segued into “Ring of Fire”—and Carmelita began to dance.
Just a sway of the hips at first. Then shoulders. Subtle shifts of her body that in any other woman would have been a harmless sway to the music. No one but Gil seemed to interpret it as more than a graceful dance, fit for a family audience.
He saw an intense awareness of her own body, a pleasure in the way it moved that went beyond just dancing. She raised her arms to start the big loop spinning around her, and when her jacket hiked up, Gil’s eyes were drawn to the curve of her hip and thigh. Hunger punched through him—instant, hot, and inexplicable. Geezus, what was wrong with him? Yes, she was attractive, and yes, he’d come looking for a distraction, but this was not what he’d had in mind.
Her gaze met his again. Her eyes widened…and once again there was no doubt she knew exactly what he was thinking.
The woman hadn’t made a single overtly sexual move, and still Gil could barely blink, let alone tear his eyes off her. There was something elemental about the way she inhabited her body that filled his head with visions of dust devils chased ahead of a freshening rainstorm, cloud shadows undulating across the prairie, the snap and crack of a campfire sending a flurry of embers spiraling into a velvet sky.
Most performers projected their energy onto the audience. Carmelita was magnetic, pulling the static out of Gil’s mind. His entire consciousness was consumed by the sight of her. And then, with the final ba-ba-bum of the song, she whipped around and stopped, feet spread, head and arms flung back, eyes locked on him.
He should have looked away. Backed down. Walked out.
Instead he smiled—a taut, challenging curl of his mouth. How far are you willing to go, sweetheart? She held his gaze while the applause compounded the roar of blood in his ears, nearly drowning out the little voice asking if he’d lost his fucking mind. She faced him, eyes narrowing, as if she was debating how to react. Slap him with a cold stare? Ignore him? He saw her come to a decision an instant before she tossed an equally carnal smile right back at him.
Then she pivoted and walked to the corner, where she shrugged out of her jacket and unclipped her silver barrette so her hair fell loose.
She said something to the lead singer that made him laugh, then say into the microphone, “And now we’re in for the real treat.”
All around Gil, heads turned and whispers hissed. Now every eye angled his direction, gleaming with speculation. The music started and for the first throbbing notes of “Tennessee Whiskey,” Carmelita stood utterly still, every generous curve of her body outlined by the tight dress and leggings. Then she lifted her arms and the loop became her lover, dancing away, then back, turning and twisting, floating into the air and dropping over her head to embrace her. Her expression went dreamy as she arched her back and the loop rolled over the long bow of her body from shoulder to breast, belly, and thighs.
Gil was insanely jealous of that rope.
The light seemed to dim and the already close confines of the dance floor to draw in around her—around him—a private bubble that was theirs alone. She pulled him into the music with her, where every thrum of the guitar and thud of drums vibrated through both of them, their bodies tuned to the same intimate beat.
And with each turn, her gaze skimmed over him, and his body reacted as if she’d dragged a fingernail across his bare chest, skin pebbling and lungs tightening. His breathing went shallow, perilously close to panting. She pirouetted around the edge of the floor, so close that her rope brushed his thighs, sending twin bolts of lightning to his core.
Before he could clear the haze from his vision, the song moaned to a climax and she once again spun to a stop in front of him, her loop floating up and over his head, settling light as fallen leaves onto his shoulders.
Captured.
For the space of a dozen heartbeats they stood, two wildland creatures frozen in a single, blinding beam of desire. Then he caught the rope with his free hand and she let him draw her closer, until he could feel the heat rising off her glowing bronze skin, smell her sweet cherry-almond scent, and see the gold that shot through her brown eyes.
For a moment the bar went quiet. Then the audience broke into an uncertain smattering of applause.
Carmelita let her eyelashes drift down as she inhaled—drawing Gil in molecule by molecule. Her mouth curved, a deeply knowing smile that nudged his thermostat up another few degrees. She didn’t say hello. She didn’t ask his name.
She just gave the rope a tug and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
If following Carmelita was a bad idea, it was going to be one the more interesting mistakes Gil had made. He didn’t just want her. He craved her…and that rarely boded well for him. But just this one time…
“Well, that was subtle,” a tight voice said.
Carmelita’s gaze broke from Gil’s with a nearly palpable snap. The woman who’d spoken could have been her younger, thinner sister. Her painstakingly sketched eyebrows arched. “I hope you don’t mind being used for payback,” she told Gil.
Before he could express his opinion, Carmelita cut in, her voice flat and cold. “What are you doing here, Jolene?”
Jolene angled her chin in defiance. “Bryson is feeling fine now.”
“He was running a hundred-and-three fever a few hours ago. How much better can he be?”
“Good enough to stay with Grandma and Gramps while I get out for a change.”
Gil could all but hear the curse Carmelita ground between her teeth. “It’s been two weeks since Grandma got out of the hospital, and you’re exposing her to this crud? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I assumed you’d do your thing, then sashay out of here with your nose in the air, so he’d only be alone with them for an hour or so.” Jolene slid an insolent smile toward Gil. “I didn’t realize you had a special show planned for tonight.”
Carmelita didn’t flinch. “Well, now you do, so you can go fetch him.”
“I barely got here.” Jolene waggled her cell phone. “They can call if they need me.”
For an instant, Gil was afraid Carmelita might try to throttle her, and he’d have to do something. Nothing good ever came of a man stepping between two furious women. Then Jolene spun on her heel and flounced into the crowd. Carmelita swore under her breath and stalked away in the opposite direction. The band decided the show was over and swung into a new song, drowning out the buzz that accompanied the sly looks aimed at where Gil stood holding her rope.
A smart man would turn around and run.
Gil went after Carmelita, weaving through the couples filtering onto the dance floor. She paused beside the bandstand to kick off her moccasins, stomp into insulated boots, and shove her arms into a hooded Pendleton blanket coat. He handed her the rope, and she stuffed it into a bag with the discarded pieces of her costume while he zipped his own insulated jacket. November was more like winter than fall up here in the north country.
When the back door of the bar thumped shut behind them, Carmelita stopped and dragged in a long, deep breath. Her words came out in puffs of vapor. “God, that was suffocating.”
The closeness of the overcrowded bar? The argument with Jolene? The attention? “Why did you come?”
“My grandmother volunteered my services. Fund-raisers are the worst, though. Everyone is so…” Her hands fluttered in a broad circle, encompassing the tearful outpourings of gratitude that marked benefits.
“You’re used to being in the spotlight.”
“I prefer an audience to a crowd,” she said flatly.
And the difference was in the separation. She could walk off a stage without interacting with the masses. But she didn’t seem to mind connecting with him, and despite what the charming Jolene had implied, the attraction between them was undeniably real. He could feel it even now, in the frigid air, with their bodies separated by layers of canvas and wool.
She tipped her head back to gaze into the heavens and her body language slowly shifted, as if she was drawing in the stillness. When she started off through the parking lot, she once again moved with fluid grace. Gil matched her stride, closing the space between them so his coat sleeve swished against hers.
“Bing told me about you, and introduced me to your…friend,” she said.
With that slight hesitation, she summed up Gil’s uncertainty about his relationship with Hank, past and future. “I’m his sponsor,” he corrected stiffly.
“Mmm.” A sound that translated to if that’s what you want to tell yourself. “We lack many things up here on the rez, but we do not have a shortage of recovering addicts.”
Unfortunately true, but none of them would be in Texas when Hank was sucker punched by what Gil knew was waiting for him…and hadn’t been able to tell him. “I watched Hank grow up. I understand him.”
She angled a searching glance beneath lowered lashes. “I see.”
Yes, she did. There was something in the way she looked at him—through him—that made him want to both hide and move closer. He did neither. The breeze caught her hair, sending a strand fluttering and carrying the scent of pine needles and snow down from the mountains. Their shoulders bumped as they squeezed between parked cars, toward the gleaming red hulk of his truck, the white box trailer a bright billboard in the far reaches of the bar’s security lights.
He swung around to face her as they stopped beside the door to his cab, and when he looked into her eyes, he felt as if he was losing his balance, falling into one of the bottomless mountain lakes—only much warmer. He could just keep sinking and sinking…
She caught him, pressing her hands flat against his chest, but her smile was tinged with regret. “I wish I could stay. You and I would be very good together, I think.”
The image of Carmelita naked and lush under his hands sent heat shuddering through him. Then he registered what she was saying.
“You’re leaving?” Gil frowned at her in disbelief.
The hitch of her shoulder set the moonlight shimmering through her hair. “I can’t leave my grandparents with a sick baby.”
“His mother didn’t seem overly concerned.” Gil’s voice was harsh, along with his judgment. Even when he’d been regularly popping Vicodin like breath mints, he’d managed to stay clean on the weekends he’d had his son.
Her gaze slid away from his. “She knows I’ll take care of them all.”
“Instead of yourself?” And Gil, dammit.
Carmelita smoothed her palms over the front of his jacket. “Next time?”
“I won’t be back.”
She angled her head to give him another searching look, then nodded. “You’re taking Hank home. That explains it.”
“What?”
“This.” Her hand moved down, pressing with unerring accuracy over the clutch in his gut. She reached up with the other to brush cool fingers over the knot of tension in his forehead. “And this.”
He wanted to lean into that touch—into her—and let her wipe his mind clean for a few hours.
“I’m sorry I can’t do more.” She stroked a blissful circle on his temple. “But I can give you something for that headache.”
“A fistful of ibuprofen?”
“A promise.” Her eyes were steady, her tone certain. “Hank will be fine. He’s stronger than you think, and whatever you’re keeping from him, he’ll understand it was for the best. So will the others.”
Gil jerked his head back. “I never said anything to Bing about that.”
Her hands fell away and she angled her gaze upward, eyes going distant. In the Panhandle the stars were painted on the sky. Here it seemed as if they were standing among them.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just feel it. But I’m almost always right.”
Without warning, she tipped onto her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were cool, but at the touch of her tongue the glowing embers they’d been gathering between them burst into flame, whooshing through him like a prairie fire. His thoughts, the last of his reservations, the ability to think at all were consumed by a wall of heat. He gripped the lapels of her coat to drag her hard against him, and she fisted her hands in the sides of his jacket, pressing even closer. Her tongue slid over his, the friction setting off more sparks.
Too many clothes, coats, infinite layers separating them. He growled in sheer frustration, pushing his hands inside the collar of her coat to find the only accessible skin, curling his fingers around the nape of her neck and feeling her pulse hammer against his thumb. Her hair flowed cool over the backs of his hands, an almost painful contrast to the fire raging between them.
Her fingers skimmed through his hair, nails digging into his scalp and creating another layer of exquisite pain that intensified the sharp, nearly unbearable stab of need. He took a step, pulling her with him as he fumbled for the door of the truck.
A palpable shudder ran through her. She braced her hands on his shoulders, slowly, inexorably separating her mouth from his.
“Well, that got out of control in a hurry.” Her unsteady laugh was a puff of steam in the space she’d created.
His hands tightened in the thick folds of her coat, and it was all he could do not to drag her close again. The desperation leaked into his voice. “Don’t go yet. Give me an hour, at least.”
She blinked her gaze into focus and shook her head. “I don’t like to rush good things, and it’s gonna take a lot more than an hour to do this justice.”
Geezus. Was she trying to kill him?
“I know. The timing sucks.” She smiled, a copper-skinned Madonna with fathomless eyes, and pressed a palm over his thundering heart. “You should get some rest, Gil Sanchez. You’ve got a long drive tomorrow.”
He stared at her in disbelief. How could she admit the power of their attraction in one breath, and shrug him off in the next? “That’s all? We’re just…done?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Her gaze tracked across the sky before coming back to meet his. “We’ll see what the stars have in mind.”
“I don’t believe in Fate.”
Her laugh was a low, husky rasp that played across every hypersensitive nerve in his body. “Well then, you should’ve steered clear of a woman called Carma.”
She touched his cheek one last time, then turned and walked away. Watching the taillights of her car disappear into the darkness, Gil jammed his empty hands into the pockets of his coat, threw his head back, and swore at the twinkling Milky Way. She was really gone. Just like that.
But she’d left what felt like a permanent impression.
Why was he even surprised? This was just about his luck. The fact was, he’d lied about not believing in Fate. He was on close personal terms with that stone-cold bitch, and recognized the distant, spiteful echo of her laughter.