Passion Flower

She sipped at the cold, sweet iced tea like a runner on the desert when confronted with wet salvation. She struggled to catch her breath and sat up, gently nudging the dark, lean hand holding the glass to one side. She breathed in deeply, trying to get her whirling mind to slow down. She was still trying to take it all in. She’d been promised a job, she’d come hundreds of miles at her own expense to work for minimum wage, and now the man who’d offered it to her was dead. That was the worst part, imagining such a nice young man dead.

“You look like a bleached handkerchief,” the deep, harsh voice observed.

She sighed. “You ought to write for television. You sure do have a gift for prose.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Walking in this heat without a hat. My God, how many stupid city women are there in the world? And what landed you on my doorstep?”

She lifted her eyes then, to look at him properly. He was darkly tanned, and there were deep lines in his face, from the hatchet nose down to the wide, chiseled mouth. His eyes were deep-set, unblinking under heavy dark brows and a wide forehead. His hair was jet-black, straight and thick and a little shaggy. He was wearing what had to be work clothes: faded denim jeans that emphasized long, powerfully muscled legs, and a matching shirt whose open neck revealed a brown chest thick with short, curling hair. He had the look of a man who was all business, all the time. All at once she realized that this man wasn’t the hired hand she’d mistaken him for.

“You’re Everett Culhane,” she said hesitantly.

His face didn’t move. Not a muscle in it changed position, but she had the distinct feeling that the sound of his name on her lips had shocked him.

She took another long sip of the tea and sighed at the pleasure of the icy liquid going down her parched throat.

“How far did you walk?” he asked.

“Just from the end of your driveway,” she admitted, looking down at her ruined shoes. “Distance is deceptive out here.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of sunstroke?”

She nodded. “It just didn’t occur to me.”

She put the glass down on the napkin he’d brought with it. Well, this was Texas. How sad that she wouldn’t see anything more of it.

“I’m very sorry about your brother, Mr. Culhane,” she said with dignity. “I didn’t know him very well, but he seemed like a nice man.” She got up with an odd kind of grace despite the unsteadiness of her legs. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Why did you come, Miss King?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now in the least.” She turned and went out the screen door, lifting her suitcase and typewriter from where they’d fallen when she fainted. It was going to be a long walk back to town, but she’d just have to manage it. She had bus fare back home and a little more. A cab was a luxury now, with no job at the end of her long ride.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Everett Culhane asked from behind her, his tone like a whiplash.

“Back to town,” she said without turning. “Good-bye, Mr. Culhane.”

“Walking?” he mused. “In this heat, without a hat?”

“Got here, didn’t I?” she drawled as she walked down the steps.

“You’ll never make it back. Wait a minute. I’ll drive you.”

“No, thanks,” she said proudly. “I get around all right by myself, Mr. Culhane. I don’t need any handouts.”

“You’ll need a doctor if you try that walk,” he said, and turned back into the house.

She thought the matter was settled, until a battered red pickup truck roared up beside her and stopped. The passenger door flew open.

“Get in,” he said curtly, in a tone that made it clear he expected instant obedience.

“I said...” she began irritatedly.

His dark eyes narrowed. “I don’t mind lifting you in and holding you down until we get to town,” he said quietly.

With a grimace, she climbed in, putting the typewriter and suitcase on the floorboard.

There was a marked lack of conversation. Everett smoked his cigarette with sharp glances in her direction when she began coughing. Her lungs were still sensitive, and he seemed to be smoking shucks or something equally potent. Eventually he crushed out the cigarette and cracked a window.

“You don’t sound well,” he said suddenly.

“I’m getting over pneumonia,” she said, staring lovingly at the horizon. “Texas sure is big.”

“It sure is.” He glanced at her. “Which part of it do you call home?”

“I don’t.”

The truck lurched as he slammed on the brakes. “What did you say?”

“I’m not a Texan,” she confessed. “I’m from Atlanta.”

“Georgia?”

“Is there another one?”

He let out a heavy breath. “What the hell did you mean, coming this distance just to see a man you hardly knew?” he burst out. “Surely to God, it wasn’t love at first sight?”

“Love?” She blinked. “Heavens, no. I only did some typing for your brother.”

He cut off the engine. “Start over. Start at the beginning. You’re giving me one hell of a headache. How did you wind up out here?”

“Your brother offered me a job,” she said quietly. “Typing. Of course, he said there’d be other duties as well. Cooking, cleaning, things like that. And a very small salary,” she added with a tiny smile.

“He was honest with you, at least,” he growled. “But then why did you come? Didn’t you believe him?”

“Yes, of course,” she said hesitantly. “Why wouldn’t I want to come?”

He started to light another cigarette, stared hard at her, and put the pack back in his shirt pocket. “Keep talking.”

He was an odd man, she thought. “Well, I’d lost my old job, because once I got over the pneumonia I was too weak to keep up the pace. I got a job in Atlanta with one of the temporary talent agencies doing typing. My speed is quite good, and it was something that didn’t wring me out, you see. Mr. Culhane wanted some letters typed. We started talking,” she smiled, remembering how kind he’d been, “and when I found out he was from Texas, from a real ranch, I guess I just went crazy. I’ve spent my whole life listening to my grandfather relive his youth in Texas, Mr. Culhane. I’ve read everything Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour ever wrote, and it was the dream of my life to come out here. The end of the rainbow. I figured that a low salary on open land would be worth a lot more than a big salary in the city, where I was choking to death on smog and civilization. He offered me the job and I said yes on the spot.” She glanced at him ruefully. “I’m not usually so slow. But I was feeling so bad, and it sounded so wonderful...I didn’t even think about checking with you first. Mr. Culhane said he’d have it all worked out, and that I was just to get on a bus and come on out today.” Her eyes clouded. “I’m so sorry about him. Losing the job isn’t nearly as bad as hearing that he...was killed. I liked him.”

Everett’s fingers were tapping an angry pattern on the steering wheel. “A job.” He laughed mirthlessly, then sighed. “Well, maybe he had a point. I’m so behind on my production records and tax records, it isn’t funny. I’m choking to death on my own cooking, the house hasn’t been swept in a month...” He glanced at her narrowly. “You aren’t pregnant?”

Her pale eyes flashed at him. “That, sir, would make medical history.”

One dark eyebrow lifted and he glanced at her studiously before he smiled. “Little Southern lady, are you really that innocent?”

“Call me Scarlett and, unemployment or no unemployment, I’ll paste you one, cowboy,” she returned with a glimmer of her old spirit. It was too bad that the outburst triggered a coughing spree.

“Damn,” he muttered, passing her his handkerchief. “All right, I’ll stop baiting you. Do you want the job, or don’t you? Robert was right about the wages. You’ll get bed and board free, but it’s going to be a frugal existence. Interested?”