Crash always slept like a rock, especially when he was in the mountains. After a fitful night spent alternating between tossing and turning and peering out into the darkness to see what was happening at Philadelphia’s camp, he was grumpier than ten grizzlies. And furious at himself.
“It was just a kiss,” he muttered.
Now she had him talking to himself. He got even madder.
He kicked the covers viciously and glared out at the approaching day. It was barely dawn. Nothing would be open yet, but he would ride until he found something, an all-night bar, a mom-and-pop diner, a truck stop, anything just as long as it provided him a refuge from the woman who had invaded his mountain.
Shoot, he might even find another woman. That was the ticket. Somebody to make him forget a certain pair of lips that tasted like berries and cream.
As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t leave things to chance; he would actively search. He’d never had any trouble before. There was no reason to expect failure today.
He revved his Harley and flushed a covey of quail enjoying an early morning stroll in the nearby meadow.
What he had meant to do was race off down the mountain without a backward glance. What he did was crane his neck in the direction of her camp. There was not a soul stirring, not even Baxter.
Memories of the previous night washed over him. He’d kissed her the way a man kisses a woman he loves. It had been completely natural, without forethought or planning. Shoot, if he’d thought about it he’d never have done it at all.
Philadelphia was armed and dangerous. Who’d have thought a woman with a mind like a steel trap and a tongue like a bee’s stinger could be so appealing? Especially to a man like him.
He glared at her empty camp stool, at the Coleman stove still unused, at the silent tent.
“Who needs a woman like that,” he said, then took off toward the rising sun with the wind at his back.
o0o
There’s no telling how late B.J. would have slept if Baxter hadn’t nudged her. His cold, wet nose interrupted her right in the midst of a dream about riding off into the sunset on a Harley. It was one of those dreams so vivid, it seemed real.
“Good grief,” she said. “He’s got me dreaming of black leather. Next thing you know it will be whips and chains. I’ve got to get hold of myself.”
Baxter wagged his tail and licked her hand. She laughed. It was great to have somebody who agreed with every word you said. Not only agreed, but thought you were wonderful for saying it.
“I’m glad we’re of one accord. Now let’s see what I have that might tempt you.”
She thought of having breakfast in her tent, but why come to the mountains if you didn’t plan to enjoy the mountain air?
“Right, Baxter?”
His tail wagged furiously, and he had the good sense to keep quiet about the real reason she was considering breakfast in the tent.
She put on her pretty rose blouse.
“It’s already wrinkled and I might as well get some use out of it before laundering,” she explained to her dog. “I don’t even plan to glance in the direction of his tent. Not even if a grizzly bear passes by.”
Baxter followed her outside, and the first thing she did was glance at the adjoining campsite. She tried to help herself, but she just couldn’t. This thing Maxie’s books called animal magnetism was real. She wished she hadn’t pooh-poohed the idea when Maxie had told her. She was paying for her scathing remarks now.
One quick glance, that’s all she’d taken. She tried to make herself not look again, but the effort was futile. She didn’t take just a quick glance this time; she got out her binoculars and searched the place.
She’d die if he caught her at it. Fortunately, Crash was nowhere in sight. Or unfortunately, depending on the point of view.
Of course, it was barely daylight, and he might not even be up yet, but his Harley was missing. A sure sign that Crash was not there.
Telling herself the tingle she felt was relief and not regret, she got out an extra bowl for Baxter and then poured some cereal and milk. After breakfast she was going to have to find a store that sold puppy food.
o0o
The all-night diner was perched on the edge of the mountain, its blue neon sign proclaiming that they served the best biscuits in the Smokies and real honey right out of the beehive. Crash ordered enough food for two grown men, all the things that were supposed to be bad for him, fried country ham and biscuits dripping with real butter, scrambled eggs with cheese and grits floating in redeye gravy. Joseph would have a stroke.
“I know you’re not concerned about such mundane things as weight and heart attacks, but wait till you turn thirty,” Joseph had cautioned him for ten years. Then when Crash turned thirty, Joseph’s magic number became forty.
Crash had nine more years to find out if his brother was right. Meantime, he planned to enjoy good food, and plenty of it. It was one of the small pleasures of life.
The waitress was another. She was blond and petite and dimpled, with a ready smile and a cute little swing to her walk. His kind of woman.
He flirted with her over coffee, and she flirted back when she brought his ham and eggs. Philadelphia crossed his mind only fleetingly.
Things were looking up.
o0o
It occurred to B. J. that she didn’t have the first notion where to buy dog food. Furthermore, her only map showed the major highways in Tennessee, not the back roads and byways of this part of the Smokies.
With Baxter riding shotgun, she drove to the main lodge. The road meandered through the wilderness, and for a while she thought she was lost. Then she saw the sign: Camp Adventure.
She slammed on her brakes. “Good grief, if I’d known that was the name of this retreat, I’d never have let Maxie send in my money.”
Baxter thumped his tail against the leather seat. “No wonder it attracts the likes of Tarzan and his big machine.” She parked her car in front of a concrete block building with a hand-painted sign that said Office.
“The director is probably King Kong,” she told Baxter.
Worse. He had the size of that giant primate but not the intelligence. After ten minutes of trying to extract a map and some information from him, B. J. was beginning to wonder how Camp Adventure survived.
And then she found out. King Kong’s wife came into the office, her brown hair in a perfect French twist, her denim dress without a wrinkle, and her smile as welcome as a warm heater on a cold day. She patted her husband’s arm.
“Honey, thanks for keeping things going for me. You’re wanted at the archery range.”
“Bye-bye, Betty Boop.” He gave her a big kiss on the cheek, then lumbered out the door.
The woman never lost her smile. “He calls me that, but he’s a good man, so I don’t mind. Now...” She took her place behind the desk. “How can I help you?”
“Let’s start with a map of the area....”
o0o
Her name was Cindy, and she was sweet, cute, and willing. When she’d delivered his check, she slipped her address and phone number to Crash along with a note that said, “My shift ends in half an hour.”
So what in the world was he doing in front of the Smoky Mountains Farm and Feed Supply when he could be snuggled up with Cindy?
Buying dog food, that’s what. And all because of a certain familiar car in the parking lot, all because of a pair of lips that could sting like a viper one minute and taste like berries and cream the next.
“Great Caesar in a bucket,” he muttered. “Looking for excuses to see Philadelphia.”
Not that he needed one. There was the dog. Baxter had taken an immediate liking to him. He’d always had a way with dogs. Dogs and women.
Correct that. Every woman except Philadelphia.
“Maddening wench,” he muttered as he passed by the checkout counter inside the feed store. The cashier looked at him as if he’d gone crazy. Maybe he had. Maybe that’s what happened when you turned thirty and discovered you’d spent every spring for the last ten years in the same place.
He was getting stale. What he ought to do was pack up his gear and head west, maybe as far as Colorado, or maybe southwest, somewhere down in Arizona. He’d never seen the giant saguaro cactus, though he had his doubts that they’d be half as prickly as Philadelphia.
“Shoot,” he said. She was in his mind so deep, he couldn’t even get a thought around her. What he ought to do was turn around and leave the store.
Instead he walked down aisles with merchandise piled higher than his head—spray paint, insecticide, shovels and rakes and garden hoes. They even had horse collars. He didn’t know they made those things anymore.
Crash picked one up and studied it. It was all leather, with polished brass knobs, not the real thing but a clever reproduction. Next he inspected the cast-iron skillets. His grandmother used to make corn bread in one similar. Where the one in his hand was divided into triangular shapes, hers had been divided into sections that looked like little ears of corn.
Those were the good old days, romping on the farm with his brother, climbing the big oak tree in the pasture, and dreaming about faraway places. Maybe that’s why he was such a vagabond. Those faraway places still beckoned him.
The skillet was heavy, and he could almost smell his grandmother’s corn bread. A bout of nostalgia attacked Crash, and he bought the skillet.
His grandmother was dead, and his mother, who prided herself on being a city woman, claimed she didn’t even have her mother’s recipe, but shoot, Crash could learn to make corn bread. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.
“Do you have any cornmeal to go with this skillet?” he asked the boy at the checkout counter.
“You wanting yellow or white?”
“Does the color matter?”
“Some folks like white, but me, I’ll take yellow anytime. It makes the prettiest little corn bread pones.”
“Where can I find it?”
“Last aisle, just past the dog food.”
“Does it come with instructions?”
“Right inside the bag. The man that grinds it has his mill right here in the mountains. It’s his great-grandmother’s recipe.”
“This is my lucky day. Thanks, pal.”
Whistling, Crash tucked his skillet under his arm and headed toward the cornmeal.