Riding the Storm. Julie Miller
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were definitely babes, she supposed. Each woman was pretty in her own way. But they seemed friendly and competent and unafraid of hard work.
The man who’d flown in with them, Nate Kellison, was definitely more standoffish. Taking a swallow of milk, she searched the perimeter of the commons area. As she peered over the rim of the carton, she spotted him on the far side of the room, discussing something with short and squatty Doyle Brown.
Or rather, Doyle was talking and Kellison was nodding his head.
He didn’t have a handsome face—the nose was a little too crooked, the jaw a little too square—but it was undeniably compelling.
A smile would help ease the tension bracketing his mouth. But she got the feeling Nate Kellison didn’t smile much. Not recently, at any rate. A sprinkling of lines beside his eyes indicated smiles and laughter had once come easily to him. But there was something almost Atlas-like in the gravity surrounding him. For a man who couldn’t be more than thirty, he seemed to carry a heavy weight of responsibility on his shoulders.
“What’s your secret, Kellison?” she mused out loud.
He’d taken off his ball cap, giving her a better view of his ultrashort crop of coffee-dark hair and a chance to gauge the color of those unsmiling eyes. They were a dark, golden-brown, reminiscent of the fine sippin’ whiskey her father liked to drink from time to time.
Those brown eyes blinked. When they opened again, they were focused on her. Dead on. Staring with an almost psychic intensity that said he’d known she’d been watching him. Startled at being caught, Jolene swallowed an entire mouthful of milk, forcing the liquid down her throat in one gulp.
There was something coiled and canny and downright unsettling in those whiskey-colored eyes.
But she couldn’t look away.
Why was California Boy staring at her?
Jolene defiantly tipped her chin and held his gaze, ignoring the inexplicable clutch of nervous energy tightening her chest. She knew she didn’t turn the heads of too many men—they were more likely to call her to set them up with a friend or bemoan their woman troubles than to ask her out herself. And she was okay with that. She had plenty of friends of both sexes to fill up her time. She had other people to give her heart to—her father, her baby, her hometown. They would always need her.
Joaquin had needed her. In some ways, he was the only man who ever had. And even with his big, generous heart, her husband had never given her more than his trademark bear hug or a platonic kiss.
Of course, he’d been so sick.
They hadn’t even made their baby in the traditional way.
Automatically Jolene slid her hand down to cup the gentle swell of her belly, protecting that most precious part of her from any hurts the world tried to throw at them. Kellison’s brown gaze dropped to follow the movement of her hand. Jolene flattened her spine into the back of the chair, instinctively putting distance between her baby and those probing eyes.
He blinked again and turned his attention back to something Doyle had said. Freed from the mesmerizing spell, Jolene expelled a sigh of unexpected relief.
What the heck had just happened? She didn’t think Kellison had been scoping her out as a pretty woman or potential conquest. He was judging her for some reason. Judging her and deciding she’d come up short, even though they’d done nothing more than exchange names.
And some seriously intense eye contact.
With a grunt of exasperation, she turned and tossed her empty milk carton into the trash. Nate Kellison’s I’m-here-to-work-not-make-friends attitude pricked at her sense of fair play, that was all. When she looked through the window again, he was following Doyle out the back hallway to the three bays where the Turning Point ambulance and engines were parked.
“The view’s better from this side, buddy,” she muttered as he turned his back to her. It was a silly, defensive retort, but one she realized was halfway true.
Without the intensity of those amber eyes to make her feel like a specimen beneath a microscope, she could relax and enjoy the scenery. From this vantage point, she could almost envision the laid-back surfer dude she’d expected to meet and share a few laughs with. Almost.
Laid-back didn’t fit Nate Kellison. Not in any way, shape or form. Like his sparsity of words, there was something tightly controlled about the way he moved. His dark blue shirt clung to the rolling flex of his shoulders and his tapering back. Even lower, his glutes bunched and released beneath the drape of his uniform slacks, creating a taut, lean silhouette.
But something was off.
Before he disappeared around the corner, she lowered her gaze past the squared-off hips, the powerful thighs, and spied a subtle unevenness to his gait. The glitch in his body’s disciplined perfection was nearly undetectable. But it was there.
Surprising.
Curious.
All that muscle and control, and the man walked with a limp.
Wounded.
“Oh, no.” That chink in his armor humanized him. Stoic and grumpy she could handle. She could even get used to those all-seeing eyes. She could ignore his perfect tush and forgive his California roots.
But if he was in pain, she was in trouble.
Stray puppy syndrome, her father called it. Orphaned pets. Abandoned fathers. Wounded men. She was a sucker for them every damn time.
Jolene clenched her fists as the familiar emotion sparked inside her. No, she warned herself. Don’t do it. But despite his less than friendly response to her, Nate Kellison’s secrets were already tugging at more than her curiosity. How had he hurt himself? When did it happen? Was he in pain right now?
Thankfully a loud eruption of male laughter diverted her attention and gave her an excuse to squelch that dangerous rise of compassion.
Jolene shifted her focus, grateful for the distraction.
Micky Flynn, the tall, flirtatious pilot, doffed her a salute and a handsome smile. Grinning, Jolene waved in return and watched him turn back to the new female volunteers. Unlike the ultra-intense Kellison, Micky was easy for most women to lust after. With his handsome face and daredevil personality, he was a natural-born lady-killer. But Micky and Jolene had never been more than friends. Maybe that was because she was the boss’s daughter, a co-worker. Or maybe she was just too tied to the land to have much in common with a man who loved the sky.
She was all about home. Stability. Community. Taking care of her ranch. Taking care of her friends. Taking care of her family.
No matter how small that family might be.
Jolene flattened her hand against the blossoming curve of her belly and tried to picture the precious little boy growing inside her. Joaquin Angel, Jr., was a tiny miracle of modern science and answered prayers.
The science hadn’t saved her husband, and the prayers had changed over the past few months. But she loved her little guy. He was hers alone now. And she cherished pending motherhood in a way her own mother never had.
One of those tender, butterfly flutters stirred beneath the press of her hand. At five months, he was still too small to deliver a real kick, but she could feel him shift inside her. An intuitive connection bonded them already. He’d know what it was like to grow up with only one parent, the way she had. He’d also know what it was like to have that one parent love him more than life itself.
The way she had.
Little Joaquin would never be abandoned. Not by choice. Not by fate. “I’ll always be here for you, sweetie,” she crooned, stroking her belly as if she could caress the baby himself. “Grandpa, too.”
Jolene looked up, intent on finding her father, to tell him she loved him with one of their coded winks.
Though he was engaged in a conversation with Dr. Sherwood, he winked