Page 159

“Good.” He quirked a smile down at her and pulled a hand out of his pocket. Offered it, palm up. “Dance with me?”

The urge to reiterate that she did not work there rose up, but Buckeye stomped it down. He’d heard her plain as day.

Shit, Wheeler. Ain’t every day attractive men want to put their hands on you. Not with your job.

If there was any nonsense showing on his face, she couldn’t find any. “All right.” Buckeye took the hand and stood. “I warn you now, though, I’m not that great at it.”

“I bet you’re fine.” Because, of course, he was reassuring as well as edible.

He tugged her by the arm in among the others and whirled her close. Her left arm ended up folded over her middle, fingers laced with his right hand, and her back to his chest. The man wasted no time dipping into the rhythm, and with his arm wrapped around her this way, Buckeye could only follow and try not to step on his boots.

She was sure eyes were on her, even though they weren’t. There were barely-dressed rentbodies all over the room; no one would look twice at a mail carrier in a plain shirt and britches. Her cheeks were heating anyway, though, with moving hips at her backside and the scent of male goodness curling in around her shoulders.

Just before the threshold of awkward, he let go and spun her out to the length of his extended arm. Pulled again and let the momentum carry her back to face him. Now the one arm was around her waist, the other dangling at his side. Respectful: he wasn’t trying to cage her. She didn’t mind when their thighs dovetailed together.

Blue eyes were almost too much to look at, but their mirth was contagious.

“I’m Buckeye,” she said as they moved. “And I’m not going to run around here calling you ‘Mr. Handsome’ all night. What’s your name?”

He grinned at her. “August. But I

don’t mind ‘Mr. Handsome’ too much.”

Her face was hot until the end of the song. The tune that followed was something slow, and Buckeye was not ready for that with this man, dimpled smile be damned.

“I, uh … I think I’m gonna see if Cyrus’ll let me have another beer,” she said, untangling herself from his arm.

“Well thanks for the dance. Buckeye.” His eyes glinted amusement as she slipped away to the bar.

He’d made her name sound like a suggestion. Something way more at home in The Yellow Rose than she was. She wasn’t even that thirsty, there just needed to be some space between her and impulsive decisions.

Cyrus gave her a knowing smirk, mopping a rag among his array of bottles as she got close. “Makin’ friends, Bucks?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m makin’. What’s this guy doin’ if he ain’t here to see a trick?” And then, because she didn’t want to look like a liar, she nodded at an upturned glass. “Can I get one more?”

Even with the windows open, Miss Maggie’s parlor had grown too hot for her liking. Buckeye took her drink and slipped back through the door to the entry hall, out onto the porch without anyone paying her any mind.

She leaned on the porch railing and her eyes went to the sky.

The old song always came to her when she stared up into the glittering black. Some line about stars being big and bright, back when there was a Texas. Her father had told her the dense cluster of lights was called the Milky Way. The dust wasn’t blowing right now, and Buckeye could see it clear, and in brilliant focus, a ragged cosmic scar tearing across the sky.

Her gaze drifted to her truck and she made a face. Took a sip of her beer.

If she could travel alone around dangerous, empty regions of The Vice just to do her job, her only protection her wits and a handful of small weapons, why the fuck did she get so nervous around men? The reasonably undamaged ones like this August left her blurting out stupid things, and the rest of them seem to be an assortment of irritating versions of—

“Now that I seen you dance, I’m gonna make that four things I can think of.”

Skinner.

She rolled her eyes, but he’d come up on the other side of her at the railing, so he didn’t see. There was a tug on the glass in her left hand, and Buckeye turned her head to see him lifting it, taking a long draw before setting it on the top of the porch rail on his other side.

Her mouth went into a line. “What do you want, Skinner?”

He leaned an elbow on the railing and gave her a smile so confident she wanted to pistol whip him unconscious. “I’m just tryin’ to figure out why you’re all alone on the porch when there’s comp’ny to be had inside.”

“Think I’ve had about enough ‘company’ for one evening,” she said. Nerves in her fingers were getting twitchy. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about what Maggie’s doin’ than some letter hauler you don’t hardly know?”

The man slid closer and his voice was smooth as glass. “Mags has her own business to conduct.” Fingertips traced over the bones in her wrist. “But you’re done workin’ for the day. Ain’t you.”