A Rodeo Man's Promise. Marin Thomas

gift.”

       Maria smiled and Riley’s eyes were drawn to her full lips and enticing dimples. “You have a beautiful mouth.”

       “Good grief, stop that.”

       “Stop what?”

       “Flirting.”

       “How old are you?”

       “You’re not supposed to ask a woman her age.”

       “Why not? Is your age a big secret?”

       She scrunched her nose. “I’m thirty-five.”

       “You’re only ten years older than me.”

       “Only?” She glanced at her watch. “Hurry and finish your dessert.”

       “Why the rush?”

       “I need to check on my mother.”

       Riley stuffed the remaining cookie into his mouth. “You mentioned that you knew a good aviation mechanic. I’d prefer to contact him tonight. Do you have his number?”

       At first Maria acted as if she hadn’t heard his question then her shoulders slumped. “Why don’t I take you to see him.”

      Hot dog. “I’ll pay him to drive out to the salvage yard and inspect the plane.” Tomorrow Riley would lease a plane to fly to the Payson rodeo.

       Riley grasped Maria’s hand and squeezed her fingers. He expected her to pull away, but she didn’t and the longer their skin remained in contact the hotter the heat that raced along his forearm and spread through his chest. If touching the schoolteacher’s hand created such an intense reaction then kissing her would be a thrill unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

       She cleared her throat. “We’d better get going.”

       He set a hundred on the table.

       “Is that all you carry in your wallet…hundred-dollar bills?”

       Riley moved behind her chair and whispered in her ear, “Would it matter if I said yes?”

       Maria squirmed, the movement bringing Riley’s mouth closer to her cheek. The smell of lilies teased his nose and he resisted pressing a kiss to her warm skin. He pulled her chair back and she bolted from the dining room.

       Riley followed, doubting she’d claim ten years was too great an age difference after he gave her a real kiss—the slow, hot, wet kind.

      HANDSCLENCHINGTHESTEERING wheel in a death grip, Maria turned onto her parents’ street. She hoped her father was in a good mood and her mother hadn’t finished off a fifth of vodka—a habit she’d begun after her son died.

       Maria parked beneath the carport next to her father’s Chevy pickup. He’d forgotten to turn on the outside lights. For once she was grateful. The three-bedroom, two-bathroom ranch was in sad shape. Years of neglect had transformed the flower beds and green grass into dirt and weeds.

       “This is where the mechanic lives?” Riley asked.

       “Yep.” Maria led the way up the front walk. She slid her house key into the lock.

       Riley grabbed her arm before she opened the door. “Is the mechanic your…?”

       “Father.” She stepped inside.

       A moment later Riley shut the door and flipped the dead bolt. Obviously he’d noticed the neighborhood wasn’t the safest. Twenty years ago the area had been crowded with young families and working couples. Once California gangs began infiltrating Albuquerque, the families that could afford to relocated to the suburbs.

       “Make yourself comfortable.” Maria disappeared down the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. She knocked on her parents’ door then poked her head inside the room. Her mother’s snores greeted Maria and a half-empty bottle of booze sat on the nightstand. Maria returned to the living room. “Mom’s asleep.” At her age she should be immune to embarrassment, but she was relieved Riley would be spared meeting her drunk mother.

       “Dad’s outside in the shed.” They left through the sliding glass doors off the kitchen and walked along the brick path that ended at the rear of the property. Light shone through the windows of her father’s workshop. “Dad,” Maria called.

       The shed door opened. Her father wore his favorite cowboy hat—one given to him on his birthday by Maria’s brother right before he’d been shot. The brim of the Stetson was frayed and the crown covered in sweat stains. She doubted her parents would ever let go of their dead son—the Stetson and vodka constant reminders that Maria had failed her family.

       “Dad, this is Riley Fitzgerald.” She spoke in English even though her father preferred communicating in Spanish. “Riley, this is my father, Ricardo Alvarez.”

       “How do you do, Mr. Alvarez.” Riley shook hands with her father. “Maria tells me you’re an airplane mechanic. My Cessna suffered a bird strike and I had to make an emergency landing. I was hoping you could check the plane and assess the damage.”

       “Where is the Cessna?”

       “Estefan’s Salvage,” Maria answered.

       “Lucky for me your daughter was out there searching for her students at the time or I would have been stranded.”

       Maria focused on Riley, ignoring her father’s heated stare. Her parents resented Maria for working with delinquent teens, believing her actions sullied her brother’s memory.

       “I’ll pay you for your time,” Riley said. “I need to rent another plane from the Blue Skies Regional Airport until the Cessna’s repaired. I’ll be in Arizona for a rodeo tomorrow evening, but, barring bad weather, I’d return to Albuquerque on Sunday.”

       The sooner Riley and his crippled plane left the state of New Mexico the better. Maria hadn’t drawn a deep breath since he’d emerged from the cockpit earlier in the day. “Dad, will you be able to inspect the plane before Sunday?”

      “Sí.” Her father had once been a gregarious man but his son’s death had left him bitter and remote.

       “Thank you, Mr. Alvarez.” The men shook hands.

       Back inside the house, Maria asked, “Would you care for a drink?” Call her fickle. One moment she couldn’t wait to dump Riley off at the hotel, the next she didn’t want the evening to end.

       “Sure.” Riley sat on a stool at the countertop then ran his fingers through his hair—gorgeous, black hair.

       “Fitzgerald is Irish, right?” Maria placed a can of cola in front of him.

       “Wondering why I don’t have red hair?”

       Maria laughed. “Mind reader.”

       “I’m Black Irish.”

       “What’s that?”

       “My mother traced her lineage back to the Iberian Peninsula, which means my redheaded relatives cohabitated with the Indians and through the centuries each generation has produced an offspring with black hair.”

       “Are you the only one with dark coloring in your immediate family?”

       “My sister’s a carrottop. Dad has brownish-red hair and my mother’s hair is a blondish-red.” He chuckled. “As she ages, she goes blonder to cover the gray.”

       Maria fingered the ends of her dark hair. She couldn’t recall when she’d had her hair professionally colored and she was certain a few gray strands were visible.

       “What about your family?” Riley asked. “Are you Mexican, Spanish, or a mixture of both?”

       “My great-grandfather was a bricklayer in a small town outside Mexico City. He married my great-grandmother there then they moved to the States and became U.S. citizens. My father and uncles learned to lay brick from their