Page 50 of Burnin' For You

And by the way her jaw clenched, he knew she meant it.

“But your knee—”

“I’m fine. Don’t leave me here, Reuben. I’ll keep up.”

“Hey, hey—calm down. I know you will. You’re a real trooper…” And then the nickname just slipped out, unintended, but it sat right there, on the forefront of his tongue, his brain, and he couldn’t help it. “Hot Cake.”

Her mouth opened. “No, youdid notjust say that.”

He made a face, wincing. “Sorry, I just—but you are. Totally a hot cake. Feisty and tough, and—I’m sorry, Gilly, but you are hot. You about knocked me over in that dress, and I know we probably shouldn’t ever talk about it again, but I loved dancing with you, even if I embarrassed us. I’m so sorry about that. But you’re also really sweet and kind and—”

“I am not.” Her mouth closed in a tight, thin line.

“You saved my life. And could have died doing it. So, yeah, I’m calling it. Sweet. Kind.”

And that shut her down. She folded her arms over her chest. Looked away.

“Not so good at taking compliments, though. C’mon.” He started down the road, north, listening to her shuffle after him.

“Fine,” she said finally, quietly. “Just…don’t tell anyone.”

He waited for her to catch up. “It’ll be our secret.”

She glanced up at him then, the barest of smiles on her face.

No, he wouldn’t mind so much carrying her if it came to that.

The road had turned into a dusky ribbon, the gravel shiny under the glow of the fading sun. They walked along in silence, and he noticed her gait had picked up on the smoother surface.

Common sense said that he should leave her—he had no idea how she’d climb the route to the tower. But the expression on her face when he’d suggested it…

If they didn’t get help soon, well, he had no idea how long Jed had before he turned septic with his injury. As for CJ…

Gravel crunching, a motor—the sound of an approaching vehicle—made Reuben reach out for Gilly, draw her to the side of the road.

He could hardly believe it when he turned and spotted an ancient station wagon—it looked like a 1970s Ford Pinto Cruising Wagon, with the round safari windows—heading toward them, kicking up dust on the dirt road.

It slowed and strangely, Gilly reached out, touched his arm. Slid her hand down to his.

Held on.

Huh.

The driver leaned over, rolled down the window. In his early seventies, good looking, with short gray hair, white at the temples, the man wore a graying scuff of whiskers, a blue denim shirt rolled up at the elbows, and a fishing vest, the pockets empty.

Reuben startled, recognizing the man. “Hey, Brownie, what are you doing out here?”

Jim Browning—Brownie—owned the buffalo ranch just outside town. His son, Patrick, fixed planes for the base. And of course Reuben had known the grandson, Tom, the best—he’d been on his team, had died in the flare-up last fall.

Brownie squinted at them. “Reuben? Is that you?”

“And Gilly Priest.” Weird that she wasn’t more excited. Even more strange was the solid grip on his hand. “Our jump plane went down about ten miles due west.”

“Oh no. Anyone hurt?”

“Yeah, actually. We could use a lift to get to a radio. Call in help.”

Strange, now that he thought about it, that he hadn’t heard one flight overhead all day. Didn’t anyone know they were down? After Gilly hadn’t returned, the folks at headquarters should have started getting suspicious. The thought niggled at him, but he tucked it into the back of his brain as Brownie opened the passenger door.

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