Authors: Catherine Anderson
Blue Skies
Contents
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Blue Skies
A
Signet
Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©
2004
by
Catherine Anderson
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN:
978-1-1012-0991-2
A
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Electronic edition: MARCH, 2004
“Coulter Family” books by Catherine Anderson
Phantom Waltz
Sweet Nothings
Blue Skies
Other Signet Books by Catherine Anderson
Always in My Heart
Only by Your Touch
This book is dedicated to a wonderful young woman, Melissa J. Lopez, who not only inspired me to write this story but also devoted her time to interviews and proofreading so I got all the facts correct. I’d also like to thank her physician, William E. Whitson, for the times when he provided information behind the scenes. I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank the wonderful people at NAL, especially my editor, Ellen Edwards, for so enthusiastically supporting me in this endeavor. Their enthusiasm and unfailing belief in this story gave me the confidence I needed to write it.
A
drumroll reverberated through the bar, punctuating the end of the last band number. The lead country singer hooted into the microphone, the sound of his voice seeming to bounce off the walls. After tipping his Stetson to a pretty lady in red on the dance floor, he smiled and lightly strummed his guitar, leading into the next song, “She’ll Leave You with a Smile.” The music throbbed in the air, bearing testimony to the state-of-the-art acoustics that made Chaps the most popular country-and-western nightclub in Crystal Falls, Oregon.
Tapping the toe of his boot in time to the base guitar, Hank Coulter balanced a quarter on his thumb, took careful aim at the empty beer mug at the center of the table, and let fly. Flashing in the spiraling lights, the coin flipped end over end in a high arc, struck the edge of the glass, and bounced away. The other men sitting with Hank laughed, and someone shoved a full mug of beer toward him.
“Chug it down, partner!”
Everyone at the table took up the chant, yelling, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
Determined to shake off his bad mood, the result of a quarrel that afternoon with his older brother Jake, Hank laughed and started to drink. The rule of the game was to consume the beer without coming up for a breath. Foam touched his nose as he gulped. When he slapped the empty mug back down on the table, his buddies cheered. Hank wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. Eric Stone, seated to his left, refilled the mug.
“Go again,” he ordered, yelling to be heard over the loud music. “Pray for better aim this time, partner, or you’ll be drunk on your ass before pumpkin hour. What’s that make now, three?”
“Five,” Hank corrected. “And getting drunk won’t cut it. I’ve got plans for later tonight.”
“Don’t we all?” Eric nudged back his tan Stetson to survey the bar, his brown eyes dancing as he took inventory of the babes. “I’ve got dibs on that cute little brunette over there.”
Hank had noticed the brunette and toyed with the thought of hitting on her later. She had a saucy smile and a way of swinging her hips that warmed a man’s blood. “Go for it, son.” Hank winked. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
Accepting the coin that Pete Witherspoon slid toward him, Hank took aim at the glass again. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten talked into tossing quarters. He came to Chaps on weekend nights to have a few laughs, toss back a few beers, and hopefully end the evening with an accommodating female. Getting drunk on his ass at so early an hour was not part of his plan, but now that the competition had commenced, he couldn’t very well beg off.
Once again, the quarter missed its mark, this time ricocheting off the glass and rolling onto the dance floor. Joe Michaels guffawed and dug in his pocket for more change while Hank swilled the contents of his mug. With six sixteen-ounce beers under his belt, he was definitely starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.
Seated at a nearby table, Carly Adams watched the cowboy. His hair was the same rich color of the fudge her friend Bess had made the other night. As he leaned his head back to swallow, his throat worked, and his larynx bobbed. Watching the play of muscle drove home to Carly how differently men were made than women. Her own throat felt soft when she touched it, no muscles in evidence unless she strained to tighten them.
Carly had no idea how old he might be. In his late twenties or possibly older. Accurately judging someone’s age took practice, and having had her sight restored only a week ago, she’d had precious little opportunity to hone that skill. No matter. Finally, at long last, she could actually
look
at a guy. Little wonder her friends in high school had spent so much time whispering and giggling about boys. Everywhere Carly was soft and full, he was hard and flat, and every place she was smooth, he had interesting bulges.
Carly wasn’t sure why she found this particular man so fascinating. Unlike the other cowboys in the bar, most of whom were decked out in flashy, western-style clothing, he wore a plain, wash-worn shirt, a pair of old jeans, and sturdy, no-nonsense boots with badly scuffed toes. Maybe he stood out in the crowd because he wore no hat—or maybe he was just so handsome that he drew the female eye. She honestly couldn’t say if he was attractive by societal standards. She only knew she found him intriguing.
Even at a distance of several feet, his deep, rumbling laughter was infectious, and he had a wonderful, lazy way of grinning that made her want to smile. Fortunately for him, the new coin changed his luck, and he got the quarter into the glass with his next toss. Looking relieved to be off the hook, he rocked back on his chair to watch as the next player took his turn.
Carly wanted to study everything about him, and she was glad of this time alone so she could do so without feeling embarrassed. Her friend Bess would tease her, she knew.
Hey, Carly, it’s just a guy,
she would say.
Don’t stare. People will think something’s wrong with you
. News flash. It was difficult for Carly
not
to stare when she was seeing so many things for the first time. Bess tried to understand, but no one who’d been sighted since birth could really grasp what it was like to suddenly have the lights come on after twenty-eight years.
Carly decided that she especially liked the way the man’s shoulders and chest filled out his shirt. Every time he moved, muscles rippled and bunched under the cloth. She even liked the way he held himself, his dark head cocked to one side, his attention fixed on the game. His posture was relaxed, his arms elbowed out, his thumbs tucked over a wide leather belt that rode low at his narrow hips. Each time his chair tipped back, a large silver belt buckle flashed at his waist.
He was gorgeous, she decided. In her opinion, anyway, and that was all that counted. A lovely tingling sensation spread through her as she watched him.
A woman with bright red hair approached his table. Her large green eyes were heavily lined with makeup. When she spoke, the cowboy glanced up, then grinned and pushed to his feet. Before escorting the woman onto the dance floor, he grabbed a dark-colored Stetson from the table and settled it on his head.
Carly couldn’t take her eyes off him as he guided the redhead to the center of the dance floor. At a distance, she had trouble keeping him in focus. One moment, she could make out his features, the next he was a blur. When the music started, the pair began dancing, their feet executing the steps so quickly that Carly couldn’t follow them. The cowboy swung the woman with an easy strength and polished precision, shifting his hold on her hand so she could duck under his arm. Occasionally, the redhead sidled away to cut circles around him, her boots tapping out a fast tattoo, her denim-sheathed hips and legs moving with seductive grace, her long hair cascading down her back.
A sharp pang of envy moved through Carly. It would take months of practice before she mastered the art of putting on eye makeup after her eyes healed, and she’d probably never get the hang of styling her curly blond hair. Tonight, Bess had helped her get ready, dispensing with her usual ponytail and lending her an outfit to wear, but Carly despaired that she’d ever be able to manage as nicely by herself.
The dance number suddenly ended. The cessation of noise jerked Carly back to the moment. The cowboy caught the redhead in the circle of his arm to lead her off the floor. At the edge of the jostling crowd of dancers, a short lady with dark hair clasped his arm and went up on her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. He smiled, bent to kiss the redhead’s cheek, and returned to the center of the floor with the other woman.
The man’s popularity with the ladies answered one of Carly’s questions: he must be very good-looking. While waiting for the next number to begin, he chatted with his new partner, listening intently when she spoke, smiling or laughing when she said something amusing.
Suddenly, as though he sensed Carly watching him, he glanced up. Carly was so embarrassed to be caught staring that she wanted to die. Her face went prickly and hot.
Oh, God
. She anxiously scanned the dancers, looking for her friend, Bess, who had been line dancing for almost an hour. It was impossible to find her in the blurry throng of bodies.
Carly pushed to her feet and cut through the tables to go to the ladies’ room. En route, she could have sworn she felt the cowboy’s eyes boring a hole into her back. She cringed and hastened her pace, her one thought being to escape for a few minutes. Maybe by the time she returned to her table, he would have forgotten all about her.
When it came to attractive women, Hank had a memory like an elephant. After returning to his table, he kept one eye on the back wall of the bar, watching for a glint of golden hair. When the blonde emerged from the restroom, he spotted her immediately. And he wasn’t disappointed. She was every bit as stunning as he’d judged her to be at first glance.
Trying not to be obvious, he observed her as she slowly worked her way through the crowd. He knew most of the women who frequented Chaps on weekend nights. He’d never seen this one. Long, curly hair framed her angelic face with wispy, rippling curtains of gold. He’d never seen more delicately molded features or bigger blue eyes. She also had a soft, lower lip that pouted and begged to be kissed. Her pink western blouse hugged small but perfectly shaped breasts and accentuated her slender waist. New jeans showcased a world-class ass and shapely legs that seemed to stretch forever.
Hank nudged Eric with his elbow, indicating the blonde with a slight nod of his head. “You know her?”
Eric gave the woman a long, careful study. “Not yet.”
Hank laughed and pushed back his chair. “Forget it, partner. I saw her first.”
“You always get first crack at the prime cuts,” he complained.
“Hey, you’ve got dibs on the brunette, remember?”
“Maybe I just changed my mind.”
“Bring in the new day alone then,” Hank shot back. “She’s taken.”
Carly stiffened when she saw the dark-haired cowboy walking toward her. Heart pounding, she glanced quickly away, fixing her gaze on her glass of beer, which she’d been nursing all evening. He would move right past her, she assured herself. He probably knew someone at one of the tables behind her.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him stop beside her chair. At a distance, he hadn’t seemed quite so tall. She looked up—and found herself staring into the most beautiful eyes imaginable. They were a deep, clear color that put her in mind of a picture she’d seen a few days ago of a tropical lagoon.
His wide, firm mouth tipped into a grin that deepened the creases in his lean cheeks and flashed strong, white teeth. The burnished cast of his skin emphasized his chiseled features. As straight and sharp as a knife blade, his nose jutted from between thick, dark eyebrows.
“Hi,” he said.
Only that, just one simple word.
Hi
. But the deep timbre of his voice made Carly’s pulse grow erratic. “Hi,” she managed to reply.
A twinkle warmed his eyes. “May I have this dance?” he asked, extending an upturned palm to her.
Carly couldn’t think what to say. Finally her brain clicked into gear. “Oh, no—I can’t. Really. I’m sorry.”
He hooked his thumbs over his belt and glanced over his shoulder. “You here with someone?”
“A friend. She’s line dancing.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “Girlfriends don’t count. I meant a guy.”
“Oh.” Carly felt stupid. “I, um—no, I’m not with a guy.”
He extended his hand to her again. “Well, then? Come polish my belt buckle for a while.”
Carly dropped her gaze to the silver oval at his waist. “Pardon me?”
He chuckled, turned a chair out from the table, and straddled it to sit down. Nudging back his hat, he gave her a slow once-over, ending with a long look at her white running shoes. “Is this, by any chance, your first time at a country-western bar?”
“Yes.” Carly decided he was a little drunk. Considering the quantity of beer she’d seen him consume, she supposed that was to be expected. “My friend Bess loves to line dance. I came along to watch.”
“That explains the language barrier, I guess. Sort of like visiting a foreign country, isn’t it?”
Carly nodded. “It’s interesting. I’ve always been told that men are supposed to remove their hats inside a building. Here, everyone wears them.”
He feigned an expression of mock horror. “Take off our hats? Bite your tongue. Cowboys can’t dance without their Stetsons. They’d feel half dressed and lose their balance. Most of us only take them off when we sleep, and even then, we hang them on the bedpost, in case of emergency.”
Carly laughed. She liked this man, she decided. He wasn’t afraid to poke fun at himself.
“When a cowboy asks you to polish his belt buckle, it’s just another way of asking you to dance,” he explained. “Same goes if he invites you to rub bellies with him for a while.”
Carly’s cheeks went warm. “I see.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “So, whad’ya say?”
“I can’t.” She threw a panicked glance at the dancers. All her life, she had prided herself on never being afraid to try new things, but she wasn’t ready for the Texas two-step. So soon after surgery, walking on even ground was challenging enough. “I don’t know how. It looks complicated, and I was born with two left feet.”
“Country-western dancing isn’t as complicated as it looks.” He lifted his hands, the gesture implying that her lack of experience wasn’t a stumbling block. “Not to worry. I know enough about boot scootin’ for both of us.”
Before Carly could guess what he meant to do, he grasped her wrist, swung off the chair, and drew her to her feet. Hooking an arm around her waist, he steered her through the dancers to the center of the floor. When he turned her to face him, he winked and grinned. “Don’t be nervous. Everyone here had to learn how at some point. It’s really not all that different from regular dancing.”
Carly had never danced in her life, regular or otherwise. People were bouncing around everywhere she looked, ladies twirling under the arms of their partners and executing fancy footwork. Her body broke out in a clammy sweat.