Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [59]
Thane stood, long legs apart, arms folded over his chest, eyes trained on her every move. His shoulders stretched the seams of his faded blue T-shirt, his biceps bulged, and she thought then that he was probably the sexiest man on the planet.
“Better.” He nodded, his eyes narrowing as he watched, his lips compressed, that blond-streaked hank of hair falling into his eyes. “Definitely better. Work on it.”
“I—I will,” she promised, and wondered why he made her feel like a schoolgirl. Checking his watch, he flashed her a smile guaranteed to break a young girl’s heart. “Class is over.”
“Good.”
“Wanna do it again next week?”
Yes! “Probably.”
“Let me know.”
“I will,” she promised, knowing that she’d work extra hard at her job, collect as much money as she could in tips and wages, just to spend an hour this close to him. It was crazy, she realized as she turned Ink Spot toward the open gate and the arid fields beyond. He was too old for her. Way too old. And he was a stranger—a kind of mystery man from Wyoming somewhere. A cowboy who’d probably been kicked out of high school before he’d graduated and had never so much as set one foot inside a university. Her parents would faint if they thought she was interested in this guy—a lowlife from the wrong side of the tracks.
But Maggie couldn’t help herself. She found Thane Walker downright fascinating, and, for the first time in her seventeen years, she didn’t give a damn what her mother, father or even Mary Theresa thought. This time, she was going to make her own decisions about her life, and the devil could damn well take his due.
Chapter Eight
A few days later, Maggie was still troubled, her mind jumbled with thoughts of Thane and her splintered family. Each day the tension seemed worse, and she sought solace as she rode through Flora’s acres alone even though she sensed a storm approaching.
The creek bed was dry, littered with rocks, not so much as a trickle of water or muddy patch indicating that water ever ran through this part of Flora’s ranch. Astride a fidgety Ink Spot, Maggie surveyed the chasm that cut through the parched acres and tried to imagine it with water bubbling and rushing over the stones, with insects skipping on the surface and tadpoles congregating in the deeper pools, but all she saw was dirt clods, clumps of dry grass, and dead, dust-dry leaves.
Clucking her tongue to the horse, she tried to shake off her bad mood, but found it wedged firmly in her psyche. As oppressive as the clouds that gathered in the sky, the feeling that something cataclysmic was about to happen weighed heavily in her heart.
Ever since she’d seen Mitch and Mary Theresa together, she’d felt this, the premonition that all hell was about to break loose, and the thick, roiling clouds that had blown in off the ocean hundreds of miles away did nothing to dispel her apprehension. She edged Ink Spot toward the stand of monstrous eucalyptus trees near the northeast corner of the ranch. Once in the shade, she dismounted and dusted her hands. Perching on the edge of a boulder, she looked across the canyon. Vineyards stretched over the rolling hills, row upon row of grapevines interspersed with access roads. The leaves were still lush and green, and soon the grapes would be harvested, crushed, and their juice aged in oak casks. Not that she cared. Not that she really gave a damn. Her blouse stuck to her back, and sweat seeped from her pores. Ink Spot lifted her nose to the teeniest breath of wind and snorted, shaking her head and rattling her bridle as a horsefly hovered near her head.
Biting her lip, Maggie slid off the giant rock and lay back on the prickly dry grass. Through the branches, she viewed the sky, thick with dark and troubling clouds. Her ponytail pulled at her head, and she yanked out the rubber band, then finger-combed her hair and stretched. How many nights had it been since she’d slept well? A week? Two?
Rolling over, she rested her head on her arm and closed her eyes. The drone of insects was interspersed with the squawk of