The Trouble with Tomboys

Chapter One

B.J. Gilmore clamped a fat cigar between her teeth and studied the hand of cards in front of her as she sat backward on a rusty kitchen chair.

God, she loved playing poker. Didn’t matter if she wagered with cash or matchsticks, five-card draw was one game where you could always count her in.

To her left, a slimy drool of sweat dripped off Ralphie Smardo’s face while he eyed his own cards, then glanced at the pile of cash in the center of the table. B.J. had to admit, she felt a little moist around the edges herself. Not a lot of air circulated to the back corner of her family’s airplane hangar, and a stale July heat hovered over the group, making the grease-scented air stick to every seam and collar.

However, the droplets gushing from Ralphie’s pores led her to believe he wasn’t just hot. He was damn nervous.

Across from her, Buck grumbled as he lifted his hip and pulled a billfold from his back pocket. B.J. glanced at her oldest brother for any telltale signs, but Buck merely looked annoyed about having to dig up more cash for his bid.

“Hell, I’m out,” Leroy muttered next to him, tossing down his cards and sending a scowl to the other members of the game.

Well, praise the Almighty. B.J. didn’t much care to play against her second brother. Leroy had a penchant for cheating, and as stubborn as she was, she usually called him on it, which led to a lengthy yelling match and meant her beloved poker game would come to an end.

Leroy was as mean as a rattlesnake and, out of her three brothers, B.J. liked him the least...mostly because of the time he’d taunted her with an actual rattler when she was ten and she’d spent the night in the hospital. Damn snakebite had left a scar just under her armpit.

Buck used to be as cruel as Leroy, chasing her around their homestead with all sorts of creepy crawlers, but he’d softened a lot in the last four years since he’d gotten hitched. He’d turned into even more of a pansy when his wife had their first baby two years later.

Out of her three brothers, Rudy—who was probably still passed out from the night before or nursing a hangover at three in the afternoon—was her favorite. Maybe that was because the Buck-Leroy combo had picked on him as much as they had her. But she’d always been protective of him because, truth be told, the boy was more effeminate than B.J.

Not that she had a feminine bone in her body.

“I’m done in too,” Pete Smardo announced with a tired sigh.

The sigh matched his weathered features. Pete probably wasn’t a day over sixty, but he looked more like he was approaching eighty. His sun-ripened face was full of wrinkles and age spots from sitting outside in front of his junkyard on a rocking chair three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

His son, Ralphie, ran the yard with Pete, and Ralphie’s pale skin revealed how little he sat with his old man. His colorless cheeks also indicated how antsy he was when he glanced over to watch her meet the bid and raise it.

The four men surrounding her sat up in interest as the bill she flung out settled onto the rest of the pocket change. Pausing at the sudden silence, B.J. frowned and looked as well. She almost pissed her pants when she saw Alexander Hamilton grinning back. But damn, she’d only meant to throw out a single dollar, not ten.

“She’s bluffing,” Leroy said, eyeing her intently.

She lifted her gaze and shot him a challenging look. “That why you cut out so early?”

He glowered, and she dismissed him with a snort, turning toward Ralphie to catch his next move.

Ralphie was two years her senior and, to her eternal shame, the last man she’d slept with. A few years earlier, they’d gotten tanked one night, snuck into a nearby watering hole and gone skinny-dipping. After the swim, he’d been frisky. B.J. hadn’t been with a guy in almost three years, so she’d given in to his pathetic seduction—and she was only calling it a seduction for lack of a better word.

It ended up being one of the most God-awful experiences of her life.

Luckily, Ralphie hadn’t been that impressed either, and they’d somehow remained friends. In fact, she’d pretty much roped in his current girlfriend for him. He and Nan Lundy were probably going to tie the knot one of these days, if the idiot ever got around to proposing. Ralphie continually told her how grateful he was for her matchmaking, and they remained tight.

B.J. took a swig from a Styrofoam cup of cooled coffee and thoughtfully eyed him as he threw down the cash to meet her bid.

Her attention swiveled to Buck. He growled, “Fold,” and B.J. silently sighed in relief. That left only Ralphie to defeat.

“Okay,” she said, ready to wheel and deal as she turned fully toward the pale, sweaty man. “If I win, I get that set of ten-ply tires you snatched from Rick Hopper’s wrecked truck.”

B.J. adored her souped-up four by four, three-quarter ton Dodge diesel, and the tires from Hopper’s old truck would look sweet on it. They were exactly what she wanted, but she couldn’t cough up the cash when her current set worked perfectly fine. She was a real miser that way.

Ralphie glanced at his old man and winced as Pete scratched his gray-black beard stubble with a frown. Then Pete shrugged. “If you lose us those tires, boy, it’s coming out of your wallet.”

Ralphie didn’t look too reassured. He glanced at B.J. “And if I win?”

She lifted a brow. “Name your price.” When Ralphie fell into intense contemplation, she sighed and rolled her eyes. “Sometime today, please. I got a job to do here pretty soon.”

“Speaking of which…” Buck motioned toward the opened doors of the hangar.

B.J. turned and froze.

At first, all she saw was a silhouette. The lean, slim-hipped form entering carried an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Tall and surprisingly graceful, he wore a cowboy hat, Wranglers, and some kind of tucked-in, long-sleeved shirt.

She could hear the echoing click of his boots against the concrete floor as he walked with a slightly bowl-legged stride. The whole scene screamed George Strait in that movie Pure Country...only ten times sexier, because this was real.

The man made a mouthwatering picture, that was for sure, and she could only gape as he strolled into the place with the confidence of an alpha used to being in charge. The female inside her took immediate notice. Good God, he was gorgeous.

Grady Rawlings had always been great-looking, though. There had to be zero percent of body fat covering him from head to toe. But while he had a lean build, he still appeared fully ripped. He was pure muscle, bone, and steel, and it looked damn fine on him. In high school, football and baseball kept him in shape. These days, he lifted heavy machinery daily, what with working in his oilfield.

When he stopped just inside the doors and turned to the side as if seeking assistance, B.J. hollered from her chair. “We’re back here.”

He turned at her call, and her girly organs leapt to attention, startling her with their enthusiasm.

Good Lord, she must need to get laid. Seeing a guy look her way should not have that kind of effect. But as he started toward her voice with his sexy male stride, she felt the impact all the way to the tips of her steel-toed boots.

Forcing her attention back to the game, she cleared her throat and told Ralphie, “Well, hurry up already. I gotta go.”

Grady approached, and she couldn’t help but glance toward him one more time. When he was close enough for her to make out the features in his face, she drew in a quiet breath. Since his wife and unborn child had died two and a half years earlier, he’d become hardened and withdrawn.

He’d always been fairly serious, yet these days, nothing made him smile. He was a lot tanner and his clothes fit a little loose, yet he was still as hot as hell. That look in his eyes, though, like he didn’t have a friend left on earth, that was what hooked her the most.

B.J. hated to see people in pain, and Grady Rawlings was in a great deal of agony. Posttraumatic stress had leashed a collar around his neck, refusing to let go. He’d become so aloof, other people grew uncomfortable around him. They didn’t know what to say or do. B.J. had heard if someone tried to talk about his wife with him, he’d get nearly violent with his irritation before storming off. With every step he drew closer, B.J. could actually feel the guys around her tense into awkward idiots.

Grady stopped ten feet from the table and planted himself.

No one gave him any kind of greeting, so B.J. cleared a couple more cobwebs from her throat. “I’ll be right with you. Just as soon as tortoise here makes his bid—and I wipe the floor with his face—we can be on our way.”

He jerked his attention toward her like he was surprised by her declaration. “You’re flying today?”

Though his low voice shot an overdose of pure lust into her bloodstream, she frowned. “You got a problem with that?”

There’d been occasions when customers had refused to ride with her because, well, she figured it was because she was a woman. It could be because she wasn’t very polite and had somewhat of a sour disposition, but she reasoned it probably had more to do with her lady plumbing. Some people just couldn’t trust such a little woman—though B.J. was five ten—to fly such a big, masculine plane.

Grady sent her a level look, and his blue eyes penetrated another feminine part she hadn’t even known existed, making her hormones shudder.

“No problem,” he said quietly. “I just wasn’t aware of who the pilot was going to be this trip.”

The last time he’d hired their family’s service, he’d had the misfortune of getting Leroy as his pilot. She guessed he was merely relieved he didn’t have to ride with that maniac again.

B.J. nodded, hoping she understood the situation, and said, “Why don’t you take a seat. I’m almost ready, but...who knows when Junkyard here’s going to make his damn bid.”

“I’m thinking,” Ralphie snapped.

Grady remained standing apart from the group. B.J. took another drag from her cigar and eyed Ralphie until he squirmed.

Buck finally found the courage to say, “H-hey, Grady,” which sounded totally lame, coming this late.

The others, all except B.J., chipped in next, mumbling stuttered, uncomfortable greetings.

Grady gave a brief nod. “Fellas.”

No one asked how he was or how his oil business was doing, and he certainly didn’t start any small talk with them. B.J. was about to say something just to fill the silence when Ralphie finally spit on the floor, sent a skittish look Grady’s way, and muttered, “Okay.”

She rolled her eyes. “Good Lord in heaven, he’s going to make his move.”

A couple of the guys chuckled.

Ralphie said, “I want five hundred,” and the laughter at the table intensified.

B.J. sniffed. “Damn, Ralphie, I could buy a brand new set of tires for that.”

“Well, then, why don’t you?” he retorted.

Still frowning, she relented. “All right, fine. But I want you to put ’em on my truck for free if I win.”

“And I want you to take one of them aerial pictures of my mama’s place so’s I can give it to her for Christmas if I win.”

“Deal,” B.J. said, studying her cards. “Add another hundred to my bid.”

At her immediate compliance and raised wager, Ralphie shifted and cringed down at his hand. He scratched his ear and glanced with one eye squinted at his father.

“Damn,” Pete said, puffing on his cigar. “If she’s offering free service, she must have a good hand.”

B.J. chewed on her own cigar and grinned at the old man, sending him a conspiring wink.

“Well, hell,” Ralphie muttered. With another curse, he threw down his cards and forfeited his hand.

Letting out a deep whoop, B.J. triumphantly tossed her fist in the air. “Yes!” she hollered, then stood and stubbed out her cigar. “Boys,” she told the table of men as she leaned over to rake in her booty. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“Well, what’d you have?” Ralphie demanded.

When she ignored him, he surged to his feet and reached across the table to snag her cards. B.J. let him have at them.

He stared at them with a saggy jaw a good five seconds before he yelped, “A pair of twos? A pair of twos!”

B.J. beamed and sent him a two-fingered salute. “What can I say? My lucky number’s two. And when I get two twos, I figure, hell... Might as well bluff, huh?”

Ralphie’s face turned flamingo bright. He threw his hat off, exposing a head three-quarters gone bald. “I had three jacks!”

B.J. whistled, impressed. “Gee, then maybe you shouldn’t have forfeited,” she told him. “Oh, and by the way, I’m free tomorrow afternoon. Will that be a good time for me to swing my truck by for the new tires?”

Ralphie was so flustered he couldn’t even talk. Finally, he turned to his father. “What the hell’s the matter with you? ‘B.J.’s betting free service. She must have a good hand,’” he mimicked. “Good hand my ass.”

“Oh, cry me a river, Ralphie,” B.J. butted in, stuffing her new wad of money into her back pocket. “You threw in your hand.”

“I’m never playing poker with you again.” He sounded like a scorned child who’d just had his ice cream cone taken away.

“I won fair and square.” She glanced toward his dad. “You see me cheat?”

Pete shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

B.J. snorted. “Ma’am? Who the hell are you calling ma’am? Your old lady just walk in?”

While Pete chuckled, B.J. finally returned her attention to Grady. He’d been passively watching the scene. She had no idea what was going on behind those cool blue eyes of his.

Ignoring the insistent tug in her loins, she arched him a look. “Let me grab my gear, Slim, and I’ll be ready to go. ’Kay?”

He nodded, and she left Ralphie to complain to the others. She wouldn’t be surprised if he reneged on the tires. But if he managed to cough them up, then hey, that’d be okay too. She wasn’t too concerned about it. She’d won fair and square, that was all that mattered to her.

She was still glowing over her victory when she came strolling out of the back room with her cap on forward and her dark hair pulled through the hole in the back. Wearing reflecting aviator glasses and chewing on sour apple bubble gum, she slung a beat-up green duffle over her shoulder and led Grady toward her plane.

Since his meeting was supposed to last late into the evening, this was going to be an overnight run. Ready for a long, boring stay in her hotel room, she climbed into the opened back doorway of her plane. After tossing her gear inside toward a corner, she looked over her shoulder at Grady, still standing on the tarmac behind her.

“Ready?” she asked, giving him one last chance to make a pit stop before they went wheels up.

Again, he merely nodded. B.J. held a hand down to him. He frowned at her palm, looking confused.

“Your bag?” she prompted.

He lifted his clear blue gaze and quietly said, “I got it.”

She barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Now there was an honest to God gentleman for you. He’d probably cut off his arm before letting some woman lift his load.

Shrugging, she muttered, “Suit yourself,” and slithered inside the belly of the plane, leaving Mr. Gentleman to follow. She settled into the cockpit, tugged on her headset, and checked the panel controls. Just as she started the engine, Grady slid into the seat beside her, grabbing his own headset.

She glanced over and thought, Holy Hell. How was she supposed to make it through an hour-long ride with him alone in such a tiny space and be expected to keep her hands to herself?