“No.” This one held up his hands in a don’t-shoot-me gesture. “No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Maybe you’ve got half a brain. Use it and get your idiot friends out of here before I get mad. Because when I get mad, I just get
“I guess she didn’t need any help,” Dobie observed.
“That does it.” Gull laid a hand over his heart, beat it there. “I’m in love.”
“I don’t think I’d want to fall in love with a woman who could wipe the floor with me.”
“No risk, no point.”
He hung back as a half dozen Zulies moved in to help the three men to the door. And out of it.
Rowan gave her T-shirt a fussy tug. “How about those shots, Big Nate?”
“Coming right out. On the house.”
Gull took his seat again, waiting for Rowan to carry the tray over.
“Are you ready?” she asked him.
“Line them up, sweetheart. You want some ice for your knuckles?”
She wiggled her fingers. “They’re okay. It was like punching the Pillsbury Doughboy.”
“I hear he’s a mean drunk, too.”
She laughed, then dropped down into the chair Gibbons pulled over for her. “Let’s see what kind of drunk you are.”
4
Gull watched her eyes as he and Rowan knocked back the first shot, as the tequila hit his tongue, his throat, and took that quick, hot slide to the belly.
That, he realized, was her first appeal for him. Those clear, cool blue eyes held so much
Matching his pace to hers, he picked up the next shot glass.
Then there was her mouth, just shy of wide, heavy on the bottom—and the way it so naturally, so habitually formed a smirk.
Small wonder he lusted for a good, strong taste of it.
“How ya doing, hotshot?”
“I’m good. How about you, Swede?”
In answer she tapped her third shot glass to his before they tossed back the contents together. She brought the lime wedge to her mouth. “Do you know what I love about tequila?”
“What do you love about tequila?”
“Everything.” After a wicked laugh, she drank the fourth with the same careless gusto as the first three. Together they slapped down the empties.
“What else do you love?” he asked her.
“Hmm.” She considered as she downed number five. “Smoke jumping and those who share the insanity.” She toasted them to a round of applause and rude comments, then sat back a moment with her full glass. “Fire and the catching of it, my dad, ear-busting rock and roll on a hot summer night and tiny little puppies. How about you?”
Like her, he sat back with his last shot. “I could go along with most of that, except I don’t know your dad.”
“Haven’t jumped fire yet either.”
“True, but I’m predisposed to love it. I have a fondness for loud rock and tiny little puppies, but would substitute heart-busting sex on a hot summer night and big, sloppy dogs.”
“Interesting.” They tossed back that last shot, in unison, to more applause. “I’d’ve pegged you for a cat man.”
“I’ve got nothing against cats, but a big, sloppy dog will always need his human.”
Her earrings swung as she cocked her head. “Like to be needed, do you?”
“I guess I do.”
She pointed at him in an
“Wide and long. Want to go have heart-busting sex in anticipation of a hot summer night?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “That’s a generous offer—and no.” She slapped a hand on the table. “But I’ll go you another six.”
God help him. “You’re on.” He patted his pocket. “I believe I’ll take a short cigar break while we get the next setup.”
“Ten-minute recess,” Rowan announced. “Hey, Big Nate, how about some salsa and chips to soak up some of this tequila? And not the wimpy stuff.”
The woman of his dreams, Gull decided as he opted to go out the back for his smoke. A salsa-eating, tequila-downing, smoke-jumping stunner with brains and a wicked uppercut.
Now all he had to do was talk her into bed.
He lit up in the chilly dark, blew smoke up at a sky sizzling with stars. The night struck him as pretty damn perfect. Crappy music in a western dive, cheap tequila, the companionship of like-minded others and a compelling woman who engaged his mind and excited his body.
He thought of home and the winters that engaged and absorbed most of his time. He didn’t mind it, in fact enjoyed it. But if the past few years had taught him anything, it was he needed the heat and rush of the summers, the work and, yes, the risk of chasing fires.
Maybe it was just that, the combination of pride and pleasure in what he’d accomplished back home, the thrill and satisfaction of what he knew he could accomplish here that allowed him to stand in a chilly spring night in the middle of almost-nowhere and recognize perfection.
He wandered around the building, enjoying his cigar, thinking of facing Rowan over another six tequila shots. Next time—if there was a next time—he’d make damn sure they had a bottle of Patrón Silver. Then at least he’d feel more secure about the state of his stomach lining.
Amused, he came around the side of the building. He heard the grunts first, then the ugly sound of fist against flesh. He moved forward, toward the sounds, scanning the dark pockets of the parking lot.
Two of the men Rowan had dealt with in the bar held Dobie while the third—the big one—whaled on him.
“Shit,” Gull muttered, and, tossing down his cigar, rushed forward.
Over the buzz of rage in his ears, Gull heard one of the men shout. The big man swung around, face full of mean. Gull cocked back his fist, let it fly.
He didn’t think; didn’t have to. Instinct took over as the other two men dropped Dobie in a heap and came at him. He embraced the madness, the moment, punch, kick, elbow strike, as he scented blood, tasted his own.
He felt something crunch under his fist, heard the whoosh of expelled air as his foot slammed into belly fat. Someone dropped to his knees and gagged after his elbow jabbed an exposed throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Gull saw Dobie had managed to gain his feet and limped over to the retching man to deliver a solid kick in the ribs.
One of the others tried to run. Gull caught him, flung him so he skidded face-first over the gravel.
He didn’t clearly remember knocking the big guy down, getting on top of him, but it took three of his fellow jumpers to pull him off.
“He’s had enough. He’s out.” Little Bear’s voice penetrated that buzz of rage. “Ease off, Gull.”
“Okay. I’m good.” Gull held up a hand to signal he was done. As the grips on him loosened, he looked over at Dobie.
His friend sat on the ground surrounded by other jumpers, a few of the local women. His face and shirtfront were both a bloody mess, and his right eye was swollen shut.
“Did a number on you, pal,” Gull commented. Then he saw the dark stain on Dobie’s right pant leg, and the
