“Stay away from my brother’s wife, half-breed,” the second Hank said. “We don’t like yer kind around here.”
Must be Jimmy. Charming family. “Don’t know if you boys have heard, but my kind are called Native Americans now.” And mixed bloods in the Creek Nation were revered, but he decided to keep that information to himself. One or two of his mixed-blood ancestors may have been chiefs. Now wouldn’t that gall Jimmy to think Sky could have descended from Creek royalty?
Hank reached for the cigarettes on the table. Shoving them against Sky’s chest, he flashed a cocky grin to his brother. “Take your smokes and go, blue eyes.”
Sky’s jaw twitched as Hank crumbled the cigarettes against his chest. What he wouldn’t give to ram his fist down this man’s throat. But his days of brawling in bars were over. “I’ll just go finish my drink.”
“You do that.” Jimmy gave him a little shove. Instinctively Sky’s fists clenched.
Don’t do it, he told himself. A couple of rednecks aren’t worth a night in jail. What possessed him to stop at this hole-in-the-wall, anyway? How many times had he been in similar situations? Honky-tonk bars in the middle of nowhere. Truckers, bikers, rednecks, other cowboys. He’d brawled with them all. The smart thing to do—get out and don’t look back. “Like I said, I’ll go finish my drink.”
Hank and Jimmy sat their wide behinds down, and Sky could hear Hank cussing at Lucy. Damn, he had only made things worse for her.
And then he spent the next two hours thinking about another woman—a pretty little blonde. Why did he find Windy so appealing? Was it her innocence? Her gentle nature? When she’d caught him ogling her through the shower door, he’d embarrassed them both, yet she hadn’t snapped at him. And the fact that she didn’t kind of warmed his innards.
Sky fingered the cigarette pack. Forget about her. You gave up women months ago. And for good reason. The more he remembered about his past, the more he realized his inability to love, to participate in a healthy relationship. And substituting sex for love was one of those weird Freudian things he wanted no conscious part of.
What decent woman would want him, anyway? Especially a woman dedicating her life to children. What he’d done made him a dishonorable man, a first-class, A1 bastard. The kind of guy who didn’t have the right to look at a woman like Windy, let alone fantasize about her.
Sky pushed his hair out of his eyes. He knew Windy found him attractive. He’d caught her admiring glances, her lowered lashes and soft smile. Spoiling that attraction would be easy, though. All he’d have to do was tell her that he’d been a teenage father who had abandoned his son, a guy too selfish to accept his parental responsibilities, too screwed up to know how to love someone else.
He tapped on his empty shot glass. He wanted to find his kid and set things right. But how could he? He had yet to remember the boy’s name, who the child’s mother was, or exactly what had happened.
The child. Hell, by now his son would be about seventeen—practically a man. Sky closed his eyes. Hopefully a better one than himself.
Rough, masculine voices grabbed his attention, interrupting his thoughts. He opened his eyes and frowned. The commotion: Hank and Jimmy at the door, drunk as skunks with Lucy wrestling Hank for the keys to his car.
“Hank, honey, let me drive.” A victim’s words, softly spoken.
Sky squeezed his eyes shut again, but the coward’s way out didn’t help. He could smell Lucy’s fear. Frail little Lucy, afraid to run. Afraid not to. He gripped his chair as if to keep himself in it. Someone else’s troubles were none of his business. He had plenty of his own.
He motioned to the bartender. “Isn’t it your responsibility to keep people from driving drunk?”
The bartender, fortyish, large arms inked with tattoos a man might receive from another inmate, grunted like an angry bear. “Hank ain’t that drunk.”
No, not that drunk. Sky watched Hank and Jimmy stumble out the door, Lucy fretting nervously behind them.
Damn. “Give me another one.” He slid the shot glass toward the tattooed bear. If he was going to brawl with a couple of redneck brothers then another belt of whiskey was definitely in order.
The gold liquid burned his throat. This is my last night in a bar, he told himself. Pretty roommate or not. Sky had the sinking feeling he was about to get his butt kicked. Hank and Jimmy might be drunk, but there were still two of them.
Well, hell. He headed for the door. If getting roughed up a little meant giving Lucy the chance to snag those car keys, then it would be well worth it.
The cheery ladybugs on the kitchen border did nothing to improve Windy’s mood. She poured herself a glass of filtered tap water, placed it on the oak tabletop, then peered into the living room, checking on the snake’s whereabouts for the hundredth time. It appeared to be sleeping, resting lazily in its glass domain. Even though she told herself being fearful wasted positive energy, and reptiles were one of God’s creations, its slimy presence still gave her the creeps. At least it hadn’t escaped again. As long as that beast remained caged, she could learn to deal with it.
Sky, on the other hand, was another matter. He had been gone all night, and that bothered Windy. She had been thinking far too much about her roommate, feeling much too attracted to him.
Where would a man go all night? She headed for the refrigerator and pulled the door open. The disturbing answer was as plain as the nose on her face. To a woman’s house, of course. He had spent the night with a woman. Another woman.
My God. She was actually jealous. Jealous of Sky smiling at another woman, touching another woman, kissing another woman. She slipped a slice of wheat bread into the toaster and admonished herself. Sky had the right to a personal life, and a man who looked like him probably had plenty of lovers. Dang it. Why should she care? She barely knew him.
Windy sat at the kitchen table and nibbled her dry toast. The problem, she decided, was Sky’s mysterious background. Once she talked to Edith, and Sky’s secrets were disclosed, maybe she would quit obsessing about him. She couldn’t help but recall that shower and every erotic, awkward detail. Every tingling sensation. She had practically melted on the spot while his fevered gaze slid sensuously over her flesh, his boyish smile rife with mischief. No point in denying the primal urges that had loomed in the steam-filled air.
Windy frowned. Primal urges she had never experienced before. Textbook knowledge aside, sexual promiscuity remained an enigma in her mind. She couldn’t imagine intimacy without love, yet here she was, falling in lust with a stranger—a gorgeous, troubled stranger. A summer fling was out of the question, though. She had saved herself for a lifetime of love and commitment, not a season of dusty boots, faded jeans and the most incredible blue eyes imaginable.
The sound of the front door opening jolted Windy’s heart. Sky was home, his footsteps unmistakable. Should she turn around? Pretend she wasn’t thinking about him? Toss her head carelessly and say hello? Force a casual smile? Avoid his eyes?
Oh, yes, she should definitely avoid those blue eyes.
“Hey, Pretty Windy,” his husky voice caressed her.
Take a deep breath. Turn around and face him.
“Oh, my God, Sky, what happened to you?”
There he stood: Western shirt, bloodstained and torn; jeans filthy; turned-up boots dustier than usual. A blackened eye. Dirt and dried blood caked in the corners of slightly swollen lips.
“Had a little accident.”
Windy’s pulse raced. “A car accident?”
His good eye twitched. “Naw, my face had an accident with someone’s fist.”
She shook her head. Someone’s fist? He’d been in a fight? All at once she felt maternal, disgusted and confused. She wanted to reprimand him, yet hold him. Tell him off soundly,