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Sky pushed his hair out of his eyes. He knew Windy found him attractive. He’d caught her admiring glances, her lowered lashes and soft smile. Spoiling that attraction would be easy, though. All he’d have to do was tell her that he’d been a teenage father who had abandoned his son, a guy too selfish to accept his parental responsibilities, too screwed up to know how to love someone else.
He tapped on his empty shot glass. He wanted to find his kid and set things right. But how could he? He had yet to remember the boy’s name, who the child’s mother was, or exactly what had happened.
The child. Hell, by now his son would be about seventeen—practically a man. Sky closed his eyes. Hopefully a better one than himself.
Rough, masculine voices grabbed his attention, interrupting his thoughts. He opened his eyes and frowned. The commotion: Hank and Jimmy at the door, drunk as skunks with Lucy wrestling Hank for the keys to his car.
“Hank, honey, let me drive.” A victim’s words, softly spoken.
Sky squeezed his eyes shut again, but the coward’s way out didn’t help. He could smell Lucy’s fear. Frail little Lucy, afraid to run. Afraid not to. He gripped his chair as if to keep himself in it. Someone else’s troubles were none of his business. He had plenty of his own.
He motioned to the bartender. “Isn’t it your responsibility to keep people from driving drunk?”
The bartender, fortyish, large arms inked with tattoos a man might receive from another inmate, grunted like an angry bear. “Hank ain’t that drunk.”
No, not that drunk. Sky watched Hank and Jimmy stumble out the door, Lucy fretting nervously behind them.
Damn. “Give me another one.” He slid the shot glass toward the tattooed bear. If he was going to brawl with a couple of redneck brothers then another belt of whiskey was definitely in order.
The gold liquid burned his throat. This is my last night in a bar, he told himself. Pretty roommate or not. Sky had the sinking feeling he was about to get his butt kicked. Hank and Jimmy might be drunk, but there were still two of them.
Well, hell. He headed for the door. If getting roughed up a little meant giving Lucy the chance to snag those car keys, then it would be well worth it.
The cheery ladybugs on the kitchen border did nothing to improve Windy’s mood. She poured herself a glass of filtered tap water, placed it on the oak tabletop, then peered into the living room, checking on the snake’s whereabouts for the hundredth time. It appeared to be sleeping, resting lazily in its glass domain. Even though she told herself being fearful wasted positive energy, and reptiles were one of God’s creations, its slimy presence still gave her the creeps. At least it hadn’t escaped again. As long as that beast remained caged, she could learn to deal with it.
Sky, on the other hand, was another matter. He had been gone all night, and that bothered Windy. She had been thinking far too much about her roommate, feeling much too attracted to him.
Where would a man go all night? She headed for the refrigerator and pulled the door open. The disturbing answer was as plain as the nose on her face. To a woman’s house, of course. He had spent the night with a woman. Another woman.
My God. She was actually jealous. Jealous of Sky smiling at another woman, touching another woman, kissing another woman. She slipped a slice of wheat bread into the toaster and admonished herself. Sky had the right to a personal life, and a man who looked like him probably had plenty of lovers. Dang it. Why should she care? She barely knew him.
Windy sat at the kitchen table and nibbled her dry toast. The problem, she decided, was Sky’s mysterious background. Once she talked to Edith, and Sky’s secrets were disclosed, maybe she would quit obsessing about him. She couldn’t help but recall that shower and every erotic, awkward detail. Every tingling sensation. She had practically melted on the spot while his fevered gaze slid sensuously over her flesh, his boyish smile rife with mischief. No point in denying the primal urges that had loomed in the steam-filled air.
Windy frowned. Primal urges she had never experienced before. Textbook knowledge aside, sexual promiscuity remained an enigma in her mind. She couldn’t imagine intimacy without love, yet here she was, falling in lust with a stranger—a gorgeous, troubled stranger. A summer fling was out of the question, though. She had saved herself for a lifetime of love and commitment, not a season of dusty boots, faded jeans and the most incredible blue eyes imaginable.
The sound of the front door opening jolted Windy’s heart. Sky was home, his footsteps unmistakable. Should she turn around? Pretend she wasn’t thinking about him? Toss her head carelessly and say hello? Force a casual smile? Avoid his eyes?
Oh, yes, she should definitely avoid those blue eyes.
“Hey, Pretty Windy,” his husky voice caressed her.
Take a deep breath. Turn around and face him.
“Oh, my God, Sky, what happened to you?”
There he stood: Western shirt, bloodstained and torn; jeans filthy; turned-up boots dustier than usual. A blackened eye. Dirt and dried blood caked in the corners of slightly swollen lips.
“Had a little accident.”
Windy’s pulse raced. “A car accident?”
His good eye twitched. “Naw, my face had an accident with someone’s fist.”
She shook her head. Someone’s fist? He’d been in a fight? All at once she felt maternal, disgusted and confused. She wanted to reprimand him, yet hold him. Tell him off soundly, yet wipe the blood from his chin and ease the swelling.
“Let me guess. You were drinking last night and got into a brawl. Oh, and there was a woman involved.”
“Sorta…well, yeah.” He frowned. “I wasn’t drunk, though. And there were two of them.”
“Two women? You had a fight over two women.”
“No.” His frown deepened, creasing the space between his eyebrows. “I had a fight with two men. There was only one woman. She was married to one of the men. Her husband was a jerk.”
Windy didn’t know what to say or what to do. He looked miserable, yet he had brought it upon himself. She didn’t believe in violence of any kind. “You fought with this lady’s husband because he was jerk?”
“Yeah. Sorta, I guess.”
She sighed, the teacher in her taking over. On occasion the boys in her class pushed and shoved. She knew how to talk them out of a skirmish, and when it was too late, bandage a scraped knee and hug their hurt away. She studied Sky. Did he need someone to hug the hurt away?
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened while I get you cleaned up.”
He shifted his feet as though debating her offer, debating whether or not to let her touch him. She couldn’t help but smile. Some of her tough-guy students did that, too. They held their little faces high and bit back their tears.
“I’ll be gentle. I promise.”
His bloodied lips broke into a grin, warming her from head to toe. He inched forward, his hair falling across his black eye. “Okay, Nurse Windy, you’re on.”
Oh, no, she thought. I’m in trouble. Even bruised and battered, her mysterious roommate had an engaging smile—a smile guarding the man within. The man she longed to know.
Three
It hurt like hell to grin, but Sky couldn’t help himself. No woman had ever made a sweeter offer. She said something about getting the first-aid kit and he watched her walk down the hall. She looked fresh: purple flowers sprinkled across her spring-green dress; legs bare; painted toenails slung into leather sandals. He hoped she had a first-aid kit. He knew he didn’t.
Windy returned and placed a stack of towels, several washcloths and a first-aid kit on the oak tabletop. The red cross on the plastic container and the clean white cloths seemed official. Sky slid his long body into a chair and smiled again.
“Would you stop grinning.” She touched the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth. “You’re making your lips bleed.”
He closed his eyes and winced like a child being scrubbed clean by his mother. And then he fidgeted, feeling like a little boy as she ran her hands through the front of his hair, moving it away from his face. He couldn’t remember anyone ever fussing over him—babying or mothering him. He decided he liked the attention, maybe always longed for it, even though, like now, he probably didn’t deserve it.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asked.
God, no. “The hair part feels good.”
Her hand stilled. “You have beautiful hair.”
When he opened his eyes, the swollen one fluttered, causing him to squint. Her compliment embarrassed him a little, so he chose to change the subject by skipping the “thank you” part. “The fight was my fault, I guess. But I’m not sorry about it. That guy at the bar, he was treatin’ his wife bad, so I called him on it. She was a little bit of a thing. Like you, Pretty Windy. Just a slip of a girl.”
“Oh.”
Sky figured she didn’t know what else to say. He’d made it sound as though it had been her honor he’d defended. She moved the damp cloth down his neck, and he unbuttoned his torn shirt. Suddenly, being this close to her didn’t seem like such a good idea.
“Oh, Sky,” Windy’s voice reached out compassionately. “What did they do to you?” His unbuttoned shirt exposed a colorful patch of bruising on his chest and stomach.
Feeling a little foolish, he shrugged. “Got kicked a few times.” Ugly Hank had big feet and big, steel-toed boots. “Nothing’s broken. And I got in a few good kicks of my own. I got one of them in the…ah—” Sky remembered Jimmy, hunched over, his face twisted in pain. “Well, I got him good.”
Windy stared at his marred flesh, then raised her eyes to his grinning face. “This isn’t funny. You look awful.”
“I’ve been hurt worse. This ain’t nothin’.” He realized how ridiculously macho he sounded and how poor his grammar was. Ladylike women put him on guard, making him feel inadequate in ways he couldn’t begin to describe. Flashing a disarming grin was his only defense, that or flirting.
Windy doused a cotton ball with a strong antiseptic. Gently dabbing it at his chest, she cleaned the bloodied scrapes surrounding the bruises. “Do you get into a lot of fights?”
“Used to,” he responded. “It’s the cowboy way, I suppose.”
Her caramel-colored eyes locked onto his. “What does that mean exactly?”
Surviving the loneliness, he wanted to say. Having to prove you’re a man. “It’s just a life-style.”
She doused another cotton ball. “Sounds dangerous.”
He laughed, his lip splitting a little as he did. It was, he supposed. Stupid and dangerous. “Charlie never went out for that sort of thing, though. Used to give me hell about it.” But then, his boss had a wife and daughter. He didn’t understand what it felt like to be completely alone. “Charlie’s a responsible cowboy.”
She smiled. “I have a feeling I’d like Charlie. How long have you worked for him?”
“Seems like forever.” Sky’s gaze followed Windy’s hands. They were tending his stomach now. There wasn’t much to doctor, just a few minor scrapes. The bruises would heal on their own. “Charlie’s been good to me.” But Sky wasn’t always loyal to Charlie. He’d pop in and out of the other cowboy’s life, work for him sporadically. Sky couldn’t take the show-biz thing year round so he’d find ranch work in between. Maybe it wasn’t just the show-biz aspect, he thought. Maybe he feared the affection he felt for Charlie’s family, the wondering about his own.
Windy studied him as though trying to read his mind. Her being a psychology student made him uneasy. He didn’t like being analyzed, especially by a decent woman. If she looked deep enough, she wouldn’t like what she saw.
“Where are you from originally?” she asked.
He shrugged evasively. “Nowhere. Everywhere. I get restless, move a lot. I enjoy a change of scenery.” How could he tell her he didn’t know where he was born, or who his people were? Or that he had recurring nightmares about a tiny gray-eyed boy and a hawk? Sky blew an exhausted breath. Dreams of hawks, dreams of his son. Nothing in his head made any sense. Was the hawk his son’s protector? Was it angry at Sky for what he’d done to the boy? Or was the hawk appearing in his dreams strictly as a messenger, sending messages he didn’t understand? He knew animal medicine carried great power—power one shouldn’t misinterpret.
Windy studied Sky’s frown. What was he thinking? Oh, for Pete’s sake, he was probably disturbed by her question. The man had amnesia. He probably didn’t remember where he was from. Edith had said he knew very little about himself.
Windy sighed and tossed the soiled cotton balls into a plastic bag. She wished he would confide in her. He needed to trust someone. Why not a woman exploring the human psyche?
“You done?” Sky asked. “I got a few scrapes on my back. Will you take a look at them?”
She nodded. It appeared he found comfort in her medical ministrations. “You’ll have to take your shirt off.”
“No problem.” He removed the torn garment hastily, as if resisting the urge to shred it. There wasn’t much left of it, Windy noted. It had been a nice shirt, detailed with silver piping and nickel buttons. She wasn’t surprised that he’d destroyed something of quality. He probably did that often. He didn’t appear to value material items.
“The cuts are down here.” He touched his lower back. “It might be hard for you to reach them if I’m sittin’ down. Should I stand up, maybe?”
Windy took a deep breath, his big, bronzed chest suddenly making her ill at ease. “Sure.”
He stood, turned his back, then jolted forward. “Damn.” He winced, clutching his midsection.
There were a few cuts low on his back, just as he’d said, but she decided they weren’t the problem. The bruises on his stomach had to hurt. She couldn’t imagine being kicked there.
She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I just got stiff sitting for so long, I guess.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Offering comfort, she allowed her hands to express her concern. For an instant she kneaded his shoulders, then made consoling strokes through his hair.
Seeping through the protective shell of Sky’s rough-and-tumble ego was a thin veil of vulnerability. It circled around Windy like the sweetened smoke of incense, begging for more of her compassion, her touch.
He needed her.
And she needed him. Needed to explore the breadth of his shoulders, the silky hair falling down his back. Windy combed through the thickness, capturing the midnight strands in between her fingers.
She felt him shudder, saw the muscles ripple down his back, listened to his pleasured sigh. Although she touched him tentatively, Sky responded as though he wanted to fall into her arms. Hold her close. Kiss her.
But when he turned abruptly to face her, a thick silence fell between them.
For several uncomfortable moments they stared at each other, aware of the heat passing between them. They stood paralyzed, suspended in time, her fingers frozen in his hair, his eyes as silent as a vast summer sky. She inhaled his scent: blood, sweat and traces of peppermint candy. The unusual combination sent a tingle down her spine.
Windy moved her throat just enough to swallow. She had no business encouraging him, not in a romantic way. He might want more than she was willing to give. Drop your hand. Step back.
Oh, my God. Mortified, she glanced away. Somehow her ring had become caught in his hair, twisted in the heavy black mass.
Whispering an apology, she tugged gently in an effort to release her hand, trying for a noncommittal focus. In spite of herself, her gaze met his, spicing her blood until it seared through her veins. Immediately her knees weakened. If her legs buckled, she would either pull Sky to the ground with her or tear out a handful of his hair before collapsing.
Still struggling to gain control, Windy gauged Sky’s reaction. He was going to say something. Do something. Make a joke. Pretend this was amusing. With that warped sense of humor, he probably thought this was amusing.
On cue, his slightly damaged lips curved into a big, lopsided smile.
Windy’s breath expanded. “I suppose we do look rather silly,” she said, her legs regaining their consistency. “But if you laugh—”
Her warning came too late; he was already laughing.
“Sky, this is not funny. My ring is stuck in your hair. And you’re splitting your lip again.”
He made a face at her. A hideous face, which she thought effective with the addition of his black eye. Giggling seemed her only option. She had never met anyone quite like him. “You’re a strange man.” She felt him pulling at her hand. “What are you doing?”
“Getting your hand out of my hair.”
She stepped back and wiggled her finger, displaying Sky’s handiwork. Attached to the ruby ring were several long strands of black hair. They exchanged a quick burst of laughter.
He lifted an eyebrow. “So I’m strange, huh?”
Strange. Gorgeous. Mysterious. She could hardly wait to talk to Edith about him. Windy glanced at the microwave clock. In two hours she would be sipping tea at Edith’s house. “You make some weird faces.”
He shrugged and spied the coffeepot. “Is that fresh?”
“I made it about an hour ago.”
“Good enough.” He strolled over to the counter, poured a cup, then added an enormous amount of sugar.
She watched in fascination. Odd. He struck her as the kind of bar-brawling cowboy who would prefer his coffee strong and bitter.
He tasted the dark brew, winced and reached for the sugar bowl once again. She tidied the mess on the table and tried not to laugh. “Why don’t you have a little coffee with your sugar, Sky?”
He flashed his signature smile. “I have a sweet tooth.”
Her heart warmed and fluttered. How could a man be virile and boyish at the same time? Rough yet gentle? Strong yet vulnerable?
Windy sat at the table and pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. Her lack of experience was showing. She understood children, not men. At twenty-six, she’d been dating less than ten years, but never serious dates, or long-term boyfriends. Although plenty of men found her attractive, she’d never lost her heart, made earth-shattering love or even cuddled in masculine arms all night. Call her old-fashioned, but she didn’t mind waiting for the real thing.
What would it be like to sleep next to Sky? she wondered. To curl up beside that long, copper body? Feel those rippling muscles? Old-fashioned or not, a girl had the right to dream, didn’t she?
Sky clanked a spoon against his cup. Windy looked up with a start to find him watching her, a knowing look in his eye. Uncomfortable, she fussed with her hair again—hair that curled haphazardly no matter what the style or length. She pushed an annoying ringlet away, but it sprang back, slapping her cheek. This time an exasperated huff blew it behind her shoulder. A moment later it returned.
Sky’s dimples surfaced. “You have bedroom hair.”
“Excuse me?”
He came forward, coffee cup in hand. “Your hair looks as if you just tumbled out of bed.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Nothing’s sexier than a thoroughly loved woman with tangled hair.”
Windy tried not to blush. For Pete’s sake. What a thing for him to say, especially after she’d been fantasizing about sleeping in his arms. “My hair always looks like this.” And she’d never been thoroughly loved.
He leaned on the table, his husky voice low and intimate. “Say, Pretty Windy with the bedroom hair, are you hungry?”
Her pulse raced. “Hungry?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. For food. You know, breakfast.”
Windy regained her composure. Her flirtatious new roommate had a dastardly sense of humor. Hungry indeed. He knew darn well the way he’d made it sound. “I would imagine you’re ready to eat.”
“Hell, yes. I got the tar beat out of me last night, slept in my truck, then brushed my teeth in a service station rest room. I’m downright starving.”
She couldn’t imagine living such an irresponsible life-style. “I can fix you something. I always keep a well-stocked fridge.”
He smiled. “Sure, okay. It would save me the trouble of going back out again.”
Windy’s mood brightened. There were advantages to having a male roommate. Security, safety. Someone to haul the trash cans out to the curb, someone to fix the plumbing, someone to cook for. She wasn’t used to having a man around. Sky would be the first man with whom she had shared a home. Her father had died when she was still small, and her mother never remarried.
“What would you like to eat?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Anything. A bowl of oatmeal, frozen waffles. Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“It’s no trouble. I like to cook. I even enjoy going to the market.”
He placed his empty coffee cup in the sink. “Really? Well, maybe you could shop for me, too. I could give you some money and you could add my stuff to yours. Mostly I just keep snacks around. Candy, chips, stuff like that.”
Windy smiled. So the big strong cowboy liked junk food. “No problem.”
Sky leaned against the counter as she rummaged through the refrigerator. “You’re different from most California girls.”
She looked up. “I am? How so?”
He cocked his head. “Well, you’re blond and all that, but you’re domestic.”
She wasn’t quite certain how to take the unusual comment. “I guess you don’t know many women who like to cook.”
“Not ones as pretty as you.” He closed the first-aid kit. “Does this go in the bathroom?”
She nodded. He had a way of saying whatever came to mind. And although his compliments weren’t offhanded, they weren’t polished, either. Of course, neither was he.
Sky gathered the soiled cloths and stacked them on top of the first-aid kit. “I’m gonna take a shower. I won’t be long.”
“Okay.”
Enjoying her task, Windy hummed as she cracked eggs into a bowl and added a dash of milk. Next she diced onions and mushrooms, then scooped them into a separate bowl. Before starting the pancake batter, she opened the freezer. Some pre-seasoned hash browns should please Sky as well as a tall glass of orange juice. A simple fruit salad would follow: apples, grapes, bananas, a little whipped cream, tiny marshmallows.
She supposed her domestic qualities weren’t hard to miss. Although she intended to have a successful career, she also wanted a husband and a house full of children. And she didn’t mind admitting it one bit. Too many people didn’t appreciate family values. In her opinion being a parent was the most important job in the world.
And now Sky’s virile presence and charming smile made her long even more for what she didn’t have. A husband. A family. Strange that a man like him could encourage that yearning. Handsome, blue-eyed Sky. The reckless drifter. The rebellious cowboy. Engaging, but not husband material.
When Sky returned, breakfast waited on the table. He stood stiffly at first, staring at the food. Windy wondered if the loner in him wanted to run from the domestic welcome. Luckily the other side of him, the bright-eyed boy, smiled and pulled up a chair. “This looks good.”
Windy poured juice in their glasses, then joined him at the table. She noticed he’d changed into loose-fitting sweatpants. His wet hair looked even longer and his scent suggested a deodorized bar of soap, fresh yet masculine. His bare chest glistened, even through the bruises. Strange, but the purplish discoloration didn’t seem to detract from his charm. They only reminded her of his dangerous, if not heroic, nature.
“You’re not eating much,” he remarked.
She glanced down at the small portions on her plate. “I had some toast earlier.”
Sky attacked his food with gusto, pouring a glob of ketchup over his hash browns. Apparently she had done well, choosing foods he liked. He drenched the pancakes in syrup and moaned when he tasted the omelet. “Do you bake? Cookies, pies. Stuff like that?”