Texas Born

There was a squealing of tires and a metallic jerk. She didn’t feel the impact. Was she dead?

Long, muscular legs in faded blue denim came into view above big black hand-tooled leather boots.

“Would you care to explain what the hell you’re doing sitting in the middle of a road?” a deep, angry voice demanded.

She looked up into chilling liquid black eyes and grimaced. “Trying to get hit by a car?”

“I drive a truck,” he pointed out.

“Trying to get hit by a truck,” she amended in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Care to elaborate?”

She shrugged. “My stepmother will probably beat me when she gets back home because I ruined her sale.”

He frowned. “What sale?”

“My father died three weeks ago,” she said heavily. She figured he didn’t know, because she hadn’t seen any signs of life at the house down the road until she’d watched his truck go by just recently. “She had all his things taken to the landfill because I insisted on a real funeral, not a cremation, and now she’s trying to sell his stamp collection. It’s all I have left of him. I ruined the sale. The man left. She hit me....”

He turned his head. It was the first time he’d noticed the side of her face that looked almost blistered. His eyes narrowed. “Get in the truck.”

She stared at him. “I’m all dusty.”

“It’s a dusty truck. It won’t matter.”

She got to her feet. “Are you abducting me?”

“Yes.”

She sighed. “Okay.” She glanced at him ruefully. “If you don’t mind, I’d really like to go to Mars. Since I’m being abducted, I mean.”

He managed a rough laugh.

She went around to the passenger side. He opened the door for her.

“You’re Mr. Brandon,” she said when he climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

“Yes.”

She drew in a breath. “I’m Michelle.”

“Michelle.” He chuckled. “There was a song with that name. My father loved it. One of the lines was ‘Michelle, ma belle.’” He glanced at her. “Do you speak French?”

“A little,” she said. “I have it second period. It means something like ‘my beauty.’” She laughed. “And that has nothing to do with me, I’m afraid. I’m just plain.”

He glanced at her with raised eyebrows. Was she serious? She was gorgeous. Young, and untried, but her creamy complexion was without a blemish. She was nicely shaped and her hair was a pale blond. Those soft gray eyes reminded him of a fog in August...

He directed his eyes to the road. She was just a child, what was he thinking? “Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Do you speak French?” she asked, curious.

He nodded. “French, Spanish, Portuguese, Afrikaans, Norwegian, Russian, German and a handful of Middle Eastern dialects.”

“Really?” She was fascinated. “Did you work as a translator or something?”

He pursed his lips. “From time to time,” he said, and then laughed to himself.

“Cool.”

He started the truck and drove down the road to the house he owned. It wasn’t far, just about a half mile. It was a ranch house, set back off the road. There were oceans of flowers blooming around it in the summer, planted by the previous owner, Mrs. Eller, who had died. Of course, it was still just February, and very cold. There were no flowers here now.

“Mrs. Eller loved flowers.”

“Excuse me?”

“She lived here all her life,” she told him, smiling as they drove up to the front porch. “Her husband worked as a deputy sheriff. They had a son in the military, but he was killed overseas. Her husband died soon afterward. She planted so many flowers that you could never even see the house. I used to come over and visit her when I was little, with my grandfather.”

“Your people are from here?”

“Oh, yes. For three generations. Daddy went to medical school in Georgia and then he set up a practice in cardiology in San Antonio. We lived there. But I spent every summer here with my grandparents while they were alive. Daddy kept the place up, after, and it was like a vacation home while Mama was alive.” She swallowed. That loss had been harsh. “We still had everything, even the furniture, when Daddy decided to move us down here and take early retirement. She hated it from the first time she saw it.” Her face hardened. “She’s selling it. My stepmother, I mean. She’s already talked about it.”

He drew in a breath. He knew he was going to regret this. He got out, opened the passenger door and waited for her to get out. He led the way into the house, seated her in the kitchen and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea. When he had it in glasses, he sat down at the table with her.

“Go ahead,” he invited. “Get it off your chest.”

“It’s not your problem...”

“You involved me in an attempted suicide,” he said with a droll look. “That makes it my problem.”

She grimaced. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Brandon....”

“Gabriel.”

She hesitated.

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not that old,” he pointed out.

She managed a shy smile. “Okay.”

He cocked his head. “Say it,” he said, and his liquid black eyes stared unblinking into hers.

She felt her heart drop into her shoes. She swallowed down a hot wave of delight and hoped it didn’t show. “Ga...Gabriel,” she obliged.

His face seemed to soften. Just a little. He smiled, showing beautiful white teeth. “That’s better.”

She flushed. “I’m not...comfortable with men,” she blurted out.

His eyes narrowed on her face, her averted eyes. “Does your stepmother have a boyfriend?”