Too Hard To Handle. Rita Rainville
meantime, if it makes you feel any better, you can be as rude to me as you like, but when you talk to my aunt, I hope you have the courtesy to—” She caught her breath, almost choking. “Good grief, your shirt.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. “What about it?”
“It’s burned. And so is your back.” Shock lifted her voice a notch. “Why on earth didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged. “I had other things on my mind.”
Yeah, like rescuing her, she thought with a stab of guilt. Giving his sleeve a tug, she said, “Come on, I have some ointment in the motor home. It’ll keep you from blistering.”
In less than two minutes, Shane was sitting on a stool hastily pulled outside with his shirt on his lap to cover his reaction to his nurse, while Christy dabbed a cooling salve on his burns. The touch of her soft hands on his back didn’t help a bit. Seconds later, the seniors milled around him, offering sympathy and suggestions. His foreman, Hank Withers, a quiet man, tall and spare, joined them, dismounting behind the group, quieting his mare and Shane’s gelding.
Tillie, wearing raspberry tennies, pulled up a camp chair and plunked it in front of Shane. When she sat, her long purple gathered skirt, held up by green suspenders, pooled around her feet. Leaning over, she plucked his shirt from his hands, shook out the dust and spread it across her lap, looking with interest at the logo on the pocket. She drew a slim finger across a swirl of stars with the word Galaxy embroidered in red beneath it.
Flexing the shoulder on which Christy was doctoring a raw spot, he said to the older woman, “I’m Shane McBride.”
“Of course you are,” she assured him earnestly. “Our host.” Smiling at Shane, she added, “You can call me Tillie.”
Host?
Christy cleared her throat. “Aunt Tillie, Mr. McBride wants us to leave.”
Tillie tilted her head, studying Shane before switching her gaze to her niece. “You must have misunderstood, dear. It’s the scene of an accident. Nobody leaves. At least, not until the insurance people come.” Her brows drew together in thought. “Or perhaps it’s the rental people—or the police. And, who knows, that could be several days.”
Beaming at Shane, she said, “When you lowered the fence for us, I knew we were meant to pull over for a rest.”
Christy stiffened. “Aunt Tillie, the fence was broken by a man who claims he was being chased by a UFO.”
“Wonderful! I knew we were in the right place.” Her eyes sparkled with delight.
Shane wanted to scowl to show he meant business, but there was something about her expectant look, her bright blue eyes and mop of silver curls that stopped him. It would have been like taking a potshot at Tinkerbell. “No, ma’am, I don’t think wonderful’s quite the word. He was as drunk as a skunk.”
She twinkled at him, clasping his shirt to her chest. “Just think! Actually chased by a UFO. We expect to have the same good luck. Don’t we?” she asked, turning to her friends for confirmation.
They nodded, apparently sharing her enthusiasm. The only exception to the general fervor, Shane noted, was the very curvy lady with the mass of red hair who was still dabbing at his back. She just sighed.
“Lovely shirt.” Tillie handed it back to Shane and waved at the group assembled around her. “These are my friends. They release water, read palms, hunt and catch people, fly, gamble, fix things, open minds and create.”
Still grappling with the idea of being host to a gathering of UFO hunters, especially those with the qualifications just revealed by their fluttering leader, Shane got to his feet and shrugged on his shirt.
Christy dropped the ointment back into the box of medical supplies and slid between Shane and the seniors. They were a formidable group, individually or collectively, she realized, and it made no sense at all, but she still felt as protective about them as she did Tillie. No doubt it had to do with what the family called her nurturing nature—or an addled mental state resulting from too much contact with her aunt.
“Shane,” she said hastily, “I’d like you to meet our resident dowser.”
A diminutive woman with graying brown hair stepped forward and gave his hand a firm shake. “Ruth Ann Watts. Glad to meet you.”
Christy gestured to a tall, slim man with eyes like blue lasers. “The man who catches people.”
Remaining where he was, leaning against a tree trunk, the man nodded. “Jack Beatty, retired cop.”
Another gesture from Christy. “The man who hunts for people.”
“Search and rescue,” a small, wiry man in dark glasses explained. “Claude Rollins.”
Waving a couple forward who resembled Jack Sprat and his wife, Christy said, “Skip and Opal Williams.”
Skip gave an amiable nod. Opal bustled forward, pumping Shane’s hand. “My husband’s a mechanic, and I read palms.” Before she stepped back beside Skip, she turned Shane’s hand over and took a quick peek at it.
A portly, bald man reached out to shake Shane’s hand. “Jim Sturgiss, retired Air Force. Howdy.”
“Ben Matthews.” Short and muscular as a wrestler, the next man nodded. “I’m the creative one,” he said, dry humor lacing his deep voice.
Grinning at the baffled expression in Shane’s eyes, Christy touched a tall woman in jeans and cowboy boots on the shoulder. “Our gambler.”
“Melinda Rills,” the tall woman said, echoing Christy’s amused smile. “Stock market and casinos.”
The last man stepped forward and extended his hand. Pale and pudgy, he was obviously still reeling from the explosion. “Dave Davidson, the one who opens minds. I’m a retired psychology teacher, and I don’t usually go around blowing things up. I’m sorry this happened on your property.”
“Well, Boss, if I was a bettin’ man, I could’ve lost ten bucks back there. I never thought you’d let them stay.”
“It’s only for a couple of days,” Shane muttered, as he and Hank headed toward the barn. “At the most.”
He wasn’t sure what had happened. Maybe the explosion had rattled his brain. Or it was Tillie looking at him as if he were her last hope for salvation. Or Christy. Hell, he didn’t know. With all of them talking at once, assuring him that they would clean up the area while they waited for the rental people, it had been hard to think.
Partly, though, it was Tillie. The little woman with the weird clothes and incandescent smile had worked some sort of magic. The others he could have kicked off the property without a qualm, but not Tillie.
And, as much as he disliked the idea, not Christy. Not the redhead. Just one look at her had his body on red alert, and that was asking for trouble. Big trouble. Even worse had been the feeling of instant recognition that had poured through every cell of his body when he’d first seen her. If he’d believed in fate or destiny, he would have conceded that she was the one woman he’d been looking for all of his life.
But he wasn’t a dreamer. Two women who had liked his money a hell of a lot more than they’d liked him had helped him grow up fast. And he didn’t believe in fate—at least not where a wife was concerned. None of the women he’d met had ever been right. Not for a lifetime. He doubted one existed. But, damn, at first glance she sure came close.
“How much of the fence did you fix?” he asked abruptly, deliberately changing the direction of his thoughts.
“Not much.” Hank shrugged his lean shoulders. “After the explosion, Milt, here,” he nodded at the gelding, “came flying over the hill and it took me a while to catch him.”
“We’ll head back tomorrow and finish up.”
“What