In Emmylou's Hands. Pamela Hearon

people would’ve laughed. Not Sol Beecher.

      He shook his head as he opened the front door. “No worries, then. Been there. Done that.”

      He must have sensed she was about to kick his ass, because he moved outside faster than she would’ve thought him capable of.

      She slammed the door behind him.

      Damn him! If humiliation was what he was about, she could be all over him like ugly on an ape.

      This game was on.

      * * *

      NOW, THIS IS LIVING.

      Sol dug his toes deeper into the sand and took another sip of his bourbon, reminding himself that he’d almost allowed his anger to get the best of him yesterday and let this opportunity pass him by.

      He was glad he hadn’t, even if he’d had to endure EmmyLou’s obviously planned slight. Or perhaps, unplanned was the better way of thinking about it.

      She would’ve been dressed to the nines with her makeup and hair done for any other adult male on the planet. But not him. She had to prove just how low he rated on her scale of men. If he was a gambler, he’d wager that, apart from family, he was one of the few men who’d ever seen her without makeup.

      Of course, the joke was on her. With her dark brown hair and smooth olive complexion, she was more beautiful without all that makeup, but you’d never convince her of that. She was one of those women who wanted you to believe she got out of bed with everything in place.

      As a matter of fact, the one night they spent together, she did sleep with her makeup on...and got up early the next morning to fix herself up before he woke.

      Crazy-ass woman.

      He shouldn’t let her get under his skin, and he shouldn’t have made that parting comment. But the woman had a way about her that made him want to... He took another sip of bourbon, letting its slow burn uncover the truth. Made him want to...

      Don’t go there. Ms. EmmyLou Perfect may have prettied up for you years ago, but now she doesn’t even view you as a man.

      It was difficult for anybody else to see him that way, he guessed, when he could hardly see it himself. The man he’d used to be, the cocksure man about town who’d played the field like an all-star...that guy got blown away, along with his lower leg, his hopes and his dreams, by a rocket-propelled grenade.

      But he wouldn’t dwell on that this week.

      The beach house was a perfect combination of comfortable family home and convenient guesthouse just steps away from the Gulf of Mexico with only a stretch of sugary white sand in between. According to the fire escape diagram on the kitchen wall, there were two suites downstairs and two up, though he couldn’t confirm that since he’d elected not to attempt the stairs yet. The nice, wide balcony on the second level would be the perfect place to catch the sunset, though. So sometime over the next week he’d make the climb.

      Difficult, but worth it.

      EmmyLou’s laughing brown eyes flashed into his mind again. As she’d warned, the family suite was locked. One of those boxes hung on the door handle—the kind with the combination that opened a compartment that held a key. The locked door piqued his curiosity, especially because it was directly across from the suite he’d claimed. But he doubted the room contained any deep family secrets.

      The way EmmyLou’s mouth ran, no secret could remain safe with her for very long.

      The beach had been crowded when he arrived this evening, but it was deserted now. The gentle, phosphorescent waves lapping at the sand called to him. He detached his prosthesis and grabbed the despicable but necessary crutches.

      Walking in the sand was tricky, but there was no one around to mark his awkward, slow progress. He understood how those newly hatched baby sea turtles must feel—drawn innately to the water...determined to make it or die trying.

      The sand cooled the closer he got to the lacy edge of foam, so the first touch of water across his foot surprised him. It was warm and so inviting. He wished to hell he had a prosthesis suitable for use in salt water.

      But he didn’t, and wishes were about as helpful as tits on a boar.

      He eased out another couple of steps until the water hit his calf at the midpoint, letting the peacefulness seep through his—

      “Damnation!” A branding iron seared the skin on his leg. His gaze dropped to the water, where the moonlight caught the opalescent glow of the army of jellyfish. They had him surrounded! Knowing it was a mistake didn’t keep his brain from encouraging him to run, so he sprinted...but only for one step. And then he fell. One of the little sons of a bitch washed into the leg of his cargo shorts on the next wave and proceeded to sting him on the stump. Another came to the first one’s defense and attacked the top of his foot.

      Sol scrambled for the sand—the baby sea turtle with his gears in Reverse—somehow managing to keep a grip on his crutches while trying to keep the sand out of his artificial knee socket by holding the half leg out at a ninety-degree angle. With dry sand beneath him, he was safe. He stopped on all threes and caught his breath, wondering if anybody had seen his absurd antics. If they had, they must have pegged him for deranged. In his present position, he looked a lot like a dog trying to take a piss.

      A laugh rolled out of him, released from a storage hold he hadn’t opened much lately, while the icy hot tendrils still irritated the places where they’d made contact. Rolling over onto his back, he lay there until his laughter subsided and he closed his eyes and breathed in the salty air, feeling...alive.

      Happy to be here.

      He should call EmmyLou and thank her. The thought spurred him to action.

      Maneuvering onto his knee, he used the crutches to get back to a standing position and moved at a much smoother pace across the sand this time. As soon as he reached the deck, he grabbed his prosthesis and walloped his butt a good lick.

      The best thing about having an artificial leg was being able to kick yourself in the ass when ridiculous ideas popped into your brain.

      * * *

      “OH JOE WAYNE...oh Joe Wayne...oh Joe Wayne.”

      The woman beneath him sounded like a CD with some lint that caused it to stick, and Joe Wayne Fuller found it mighty distracting. Maybe if he changed things up a bit...rolled over to his side...

      The room whirled as he eased to the left, but Ramona’s sturdy thigh shoved him back into place. Her legs locked tighter around him, and she began to buck harder, drumming his ass with her heels. “Oh, yes, baby. Just like that. Give me more of that.”

      “You like this?” he panted, trying to stay focused and not think about how much his head was spinning and how much pain her heels was inflicting. He’d have bruises, for sure...and a helluva hangover. “You like—ow! Sunshine, you got to—oof!...take it easier. You’re making me lose—”

      “No! Don’t stop!” Her teeth sank into his shoulder.

      “Shitfire! No more biting. You promised.” A week with Ramona had left his neck and shoulders looking like he’d been to a damn vampire convention.

      “Sorry,” she whispered. “Just don’t stop. Don’t stop.” The last word came out on a snarl that sounded like a rabid dog.

      He hoped to hell when this was over, he didn’t have to put her down like they did Old Yeller.

      “Oh Joe Wayne...oh Joe Wayne...”

      Speaking of “yeller”...

      “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

      Joe Wayne squeezed his eyes shut, reminding himself to keep Ramona far away from the Wild Turkey tomorrow night...if there was a tomorrow night...if he lived through this beating.

      “Don’t stop. Don’t. Stop! Stop!” Ramona sucked in a gulp of air and