He’d consider himself lucky if it were the only one. He suspected the rear tire had taken a hit, too. Crouching down, he surveyed the damage. The front tire was already flat, and he quickly spotted the gash in the rubber that had caused the trouble.
“Damn.” Dory had come to stand beside him and stared at the ruined wheel. “I hate to tell you but the back tire is losing air, too. But it seems to be a slow leak so it could just be a small puncture.”
Clint really had to work at holding on to his temper. None of this was her fault. The blame was totally his, and she didn’t deserve the sarcasm simmering inside him. He pushed to his feet. “I hope you’re right so we don’t have to call the ranch for a tow. Everyone is busy enough.”
“You have more than one spare?”
“Nope, but if it is a small puncture I have some of that spray stuff to use for a temporary fix.”
“Give me the jack and I’ll get started on the front tire while you check out the rear.”
Clint barked out a laugh. “You’re offering to change the tire?”
She blinked, clearly surprised at first, and then she narrowed her eyes. “And if I am?”
“You go sit in the shade and sip some water. I’ll take care of this.”
“Oh, brother.”
“Are we gonna stand here arguing, or can we try to get back before the barbecue starts tomorrow?” He stalked to the back of the truck, suddenly and painfully aware that although the spare was accessible under the bed, the spray can was in his toolbox buried under a mountain of lumber.
“Don’t get huffy with me. I wasn’t the one driving like an idiot.”
“Son of a—” He cut himself off, but vented his frustration by slamming an open hand on the side of the truck. Pain shot up his arm.
“What?”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at the load of lumber. No way around it. He was going to have to move half the boards over to the other side to get to the toolbox. The hell of it was he knew better than to find himself in this predicament. Now he’d sucked Dory into the mess.
She didn’t say another word. As if she sensed the problem, she got down on her haunches and worked at dislodging the spare stowed under the bed. Ashamed of himself, he hunkered down beside her, and took her by the shoulders.
Her upper arms were slim, but taut and lightly muscled under his grip, which didn’t surprise him considering how hard she’d worked beside him. What did catch him off guard was his reluctance to release her, the sudden itch to run his palms down her arms and take her hands in his. Resisting the urge, he gently forced her aside and got to work. He figured he’d done enough harm for one day.
WHEN THEY RETURNED to the Sugarloaf Ranch, Dory offered to help unload the lumber even though she knew he’d turn her down. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she’d regretted them. There were two guys standing around, waiting to help, but no, she had to prove she was as good as any man, prove that she could keep up with Clint. God, when was she going to learn to back off and quit acting like a dope.
She stood off to the side, out of the way, grinding her teeth. She was fit and buff and as capable as most men when it came to physical labor. That was something to be proud of, not something to be kicking herself over. So what that she wasn’t like Lisa or Kate or Jessica? Or most other women, for that matter. She was a tomboy, and always had been. That never bothered her, so why second-guess herself now?
Oh, heck, she knew why. She’d been a bully about changing the tire and hurt Clint’s pride. Did she really have to prove she could change a tire faster than he could? No wonder he’d barely spoken to her the rest of the way back.
“You don’t need to hang around,” he said gruffly as the last of the lumber was unloaded and he walked past her. “Go grab a shower while there’s still hot water.”
She dabbed self-consciously at her smudged cheeks. “Are you going to start building the booths now?”
“That’s the plan.”
She half skipped to catch up to his longer strides as he headed toward the barn. “I’m pretty good with a hammer.”
He slid her an exasperated glance. “I don’t doubt it for a minute.”
“Oh, come on, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She cut herself short when she noticed that one of the men who’d helped unload was watching them with avid interest.
Clint whipped off his hat and smacked it against the front of his thigh. Without the brim shading his eyes, they looked incredibly green in the fading sunlight. “Kate might need some help in the kitchen. As far as the thing with the tire, you won fair and square. You beat me by a full three minutes.” He bowed at the waist and extended his arm with a flourish. “My hat’s off to you.” His gaze staying level with hers, he added in a grouchy voice, “Did you catch all that, Curly?”
The short, paunchy, older man who’d been watching them quickly averted his eyes and hastened toward the corral where the other guy had gone back to working with a mustang.
“Look, I can’t cook worth beans, okay? I won’t be of any use to Kate.”
Amusement hovered at the corners of his mouth. “Can you boil water?”
“With instructions, maybe.”
“Hell, then maybe we ought to keep you out of the kitchen.”
“Trust me. That would serve everyone well.”
“Come on then,” he said grudgingly. “I won’t deny I could use the help.”
She followed him into the massive barn that housed all sorts of tack, saddles and harnesses. Bales of hay were stacked in a maze, so high that she couldn’t see where they were going. Hovering above the smell of leather and hay, the strong aroma of brewing coffee teased her nostrils. The air was warm and sticky, and hot coffee was the last thing that should appeal to her, but her mouth watered.
“The booths really aren’t hard to put up,” Clint said as he led her to a small shed tucked in the corner of the barn. “We don’t care about them being too fancy. It’s a simple frame with a canvas roof, enough for some shade.”
“I’m surprised you don’t keep everything ready to assemble each year.”
“Normally we do, but the storage shed leaked last fall and most of the boards and two-by-fours suffered too much water rot.” He pulled on a string and a bare light-bulb flooded the small area with light. “Let’s see, we need nails, hammers, a staple gun…”
Dory had stepped inside with him before she realized what little space was allowed by the floor-to-ceiling shelves and two large generators. She’d started backing out when he turned to her, his arm brushing her breast, his face so close to her face that his breath mingled with hers.
“Sorry,” she murmured, bumping into the door frame behind her.
“My fault,” he said, but didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. His gaze lowered to her mouth. Automatically she moistened her lips. “If you’ve changed your mind and would rather take that shower, I won’t hold it against you.”
Was that a hint? She sniffed. Oh, God, she’d been sweating like a pig earlier.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” Laughing, he caught her wrist when she tried to flee. “We’re in the same boat, honey. I’m not in a position to throw stones. Besides, you smell pretty good to me.”
The teasing glint that had lit his eyes a second ago darkened, as his gaze once again rested on her lips. His hold on her wrist grew a fraction tighter, and she felt the pad of his thumb at her speeding pulse.
Dory