Leaving Necessity (4 page)

Why did I agree to that?

Throwing the pickup into park in her uncle’s carport, Clara drooped in the driver’s seat, thumping her forehead lightly against the steering wheel.

An entire week in Necessity.

Worse, an entire week in Mitchell MacAllan’s company.

When she had arrived, she hadn’t planned to spend more than a few days here. In fact, she had planned to pick out a few mementos for herself, things that she knew Gavin would want her to have. And then she was going to hire someone to clear out the house. All she would have to do after that is find realtor to sell the old Craftsman for her, and Clara’s final ties to Necessity would be severed.

Instead, she was going to have to live here for a while.

She began clicking off to-do items in her head.

Her suitcase didn’t have more than a couple of changes of clothes, one of them the dress she had worn to the funeral. The laundry room at the back of the house held the same creaky old washer she remembered from her childhood. No dryer. Gavin had still hung his clothes out on a line in the back to dry.

I guess it’s lucky I already ruined my jeans. They wouldn’t survive the Necessity washing process, anyway.

She would have to go grocery shopping at some point. Uncle Gavin’s fridge hadn’t had much in it other than condiments—and she had thrown most of those away.

With a sigh, she got out of the truck, pulled her bag out behind her, and trudged partway up the front steps.

Suddenly a week seemed almost overwhelming. Dropping to the top step, she rubbed her eyes.

“Clara, honey, you okay?” Mrs. Jordan’s thready voice interrupted her self-pity-fest.

Guess I should have chosen someplace other than the front steps to crumple.

With a final sigh, Clara rubbed her temples and lifted her head off her hands, dropping them to dangle between her knees. “I’m fine, Mrs. Jordan,” she said, but her words didn’t ward off the incoming attack of old-lady solicitude.

She hadn’t really expected them to.

Still, a girl can hope.

Using her cane for balance, Mrs. Jordan slowly lowered herself to sit on the steps next to Clara, then reached over to pat the younger woman’s knee. “Anything you want to tell me about?”

Unexpected tears prickled at the back of Clara’s eyes and her shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Mrs. Jordan, but I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

The older woman reached up and patted her face with gnarled hands, her eyes searching Clara’s face from behind her thick glasses. “You’re all knotted up,” she observed.

Clara rolled her head from side to side, rubbing at her neck. “There’s more going on here than I expected.”

And Uncle Gavin wasn’t here to help her with any of it.

Again, she shoved tears back.

“There always is.” The two women sat in oddly companionable silence for a long moment before Mrs. Jordan spoke again. “You know what you need? You need to go see that horse doctor over there in Santo.”

The sudden shift in topic made Clara’s head spin. Was the old woman more senile than she had realized? “A vet?”

Mrs. Jordan paused. “Now that you mention it, I don’t know if he was in the military. Never thought to ask.”

Clara could feel her headache returning. “I don’t have a horse.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Then why should I go to a horse doctor?”

“For stress.” Mrs. Jordan waved her hand, presumably in the direction of the horse doctor. “This old guy’s a chiropractor.”

A frown creased Clara’s face. “For horses?”

“Well, no. Why on earth would I send you to a horse chiropractor?”

“I have no idea,” Clara muttered.

“Don’t get sassy with me. He’s a good chiropractor. But he doesn’t advertise or anything.” Mrs. Jordan thumped her cane on the steps for emphasis. “He’s not in the phone book, either. Now, what was his name?” She drifted off into a low-voiced muttering as she tried and discarded various name.

Yep. That was definitely the headache returning.

“Doctor Hay!” Mrs. Jordan suddenly crowed triumphantly. “That’s his name. You need to go see Dr. Hay over in Santo.”

Clara made a noncommittal noise.

“Oh, wait a minute.” Mrs. Jordan tilted her head to one side. “You know, come to think of it, I don’t believe he’s a horse doctor at all. He’s just got a horsey kind of name.”

From somewhere deep inside her, a snort escaped. Clara tried to hold it back, to push the laughter back down to the same place she had shoved the tears, but this time she couldn’t hold it in. Within moments, she and Mrs. Jordan were hanging on one another, laughing so hard that the tears she had denied earlier were flowing down her face.

* * *

Everything about Gavin Graves’s house was exactly the same as it had been when Mac had come by to see Gavin two weeks before—except, of course, that Gavin was no longer in it.

But Clara was.

It had been a long time since Mac had pulled up in front of the house and pictured an eighteen-year-old Clara slamming out the front door and skipping down the stairs, blonde ponytail bouncing behind her as Gavin opened the door again to call out some last-minute instructions.

Now, though, he couldn’t help but compare that girl’s joyful skip to the sedate step of the woman who rose from the white wicker porch swing and made her way to the company truck. This Clara’s gaze was wary as she opened the passenger door and climbed in.

The ponytail hadn’t changed very much, but Mac suspected that had more to do with pragmatism than style. In fact, Clara had bowed more to the pragmatic needs of walking around the oil patch than he had expected her to, given everything he had seen her wear up to this point.

He frowned. Something about her clothing was off, despite his repeated reminders the day before to be sure to wear something she didn’t mind getting dirty.

“Good morning.” She spoke coolly, settling herself into the seat and fastening her seatbelt.

Mac handed her one of the two coffees he had picked up at the convenience store when he stopped to fill up the pickup with diesel. “Morning.”

Holding the cup up to her face, she breathed in and closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. Her eyes popped open almost immediately, as if she had remembered that she needed to keep her defenses up around him.

That guarded stance wouldn’t last. Mac would make sure of it.

For right now, though, he needed to be all business.

“I brought information sheets for each well site,” he said, picking up the folder on the center console between them and handing it to her. “It’ll take a while to get to the sites, so I figured you could look over the specs for each one on the way out there.”

As he handed her the paperwork, something almost like electricity flashed from her fingertips to his, even as Mac tried to avoid brushing her with his touch. He suppressed a shiver and put the truck into gear.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her long, slim hands flip open the folder, a frown creasing her forehead as she began perusing the long columns of numbers and calculations.

The silence in the truck wasn’t as uncomfortable as Mac had feared. As she read, Clara made little muttering noises, and after a few moments, she dove into her black leather bag for a pen.

When she began making notes on the overviews he had provided, Mac allowed himself a tiny smile. He knew when he created the printouts that Clara wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to study them and ask questions. That curious streak was something she had always shared with Gavin.

It was one of the reasons Mac had been sure she needed to get out of Necessity when they were young.

It seemed ironic that now he was planning to do everything he could to make her stay, at least for a while—but that was life. It never quite worked out how you planned it.

It took almost half an hour to get out to the nearest site, and Clara hadn’t spoken again, choosing instead to bury herself in information about the wells they would be visiting.

Fine. He could talk enough for both of them, if it came down to it.

The last road into the site—maintained not by the county, but by the company—was little more than a bumpy two-lane track through rocky scrubland. At that point, Clara finally gave up even pretending that she was able to read, and instead stared out the window at the land stretching away from them.

“This is the Hartley B site,” he said as he stopped the pickup truck and swung to the ground. Light brown dust still swirled behind them, and Mac pitched his voice to carry over the sound of the pump jack working the cricket-head pump up and down. “You might have noticed that we track the amount of salt water we pull up from the well. Dealing with water is probably one of the biggest issues we deal with on a regular basis.”

Tilting her head back to take in the big pump, Clara leaned in toward him, drawn to learn everything she could despite herself. “You have to separate the oil from the water?”

“Actually, it’s mostly gas, here. We get some oil, but by and large, Aerio produces natural gas wells. But yeah, we have to separate the water out.” Waving her to follow him, he led her to the small foamer tank over to one side. “One way we do that is by dropping soap into the well. That foams the water up out of the well and gets it out of the way of the gas. If the well’s too loaded up with water to flow, the foamer can get the well to kick off again. Plus it helps clean out the well bore—otherwise, iron ore deposits build up and gum up the works.”

He had forgotten what a good listener Clara was, taking everything in and processing it. She and Gavin had been more alike than either of them ever wanted to admit. The same impulse that made her uncle eager to buy the company in the first place made Clara a good candidate for taking it over.

Mac hadn’t allowed himself to consider the reasons Gavin might have set up his will to require Clara to spend so much time with Mac. The older man hadn’t ever asked Mac what had happened. In fact, he had rarely mentioned Clara at all. When Gavin had called three years ago to ask if he would be interested in learning the oil business from the ground up, Mac had been glad of the job offer. But now Mac was wondering if maybe Gavin Graves had been plotting to force his niece’s return for years.

He shook off the thought. Gavin’s intentions didn’t matter. Making sure Clara didn’t shut the company or sell it to someone who would bring in outsiders and fire all the locals—those goals were important.

Mac pointed out a pipe to one side, placing his hand on it and motioning for Clara to do the same.

When her hand met the metal, she gasped, her gaze jerking up to meet his. “It’s hot.”

Mac grinned. “That’s the temperature it comes up out of the ground.” Her answering smile, holding a hint of wonder, made his heart thump hard in his chest.

Oh, hell no
, he told it.
This is strictly business
.

If only he could believe his heart would listen.

I had forgotten how big the sky is here.

Clara moved to the side of the caliche road, sidestepping several larger rocks in order to make her way to the edge of the small oil field—the ‘oil patch,’ Mitch had called it. Drawing in a deep breath, she could smell the dust and mesquite, even over the scent of the gas that hissed out of the pressure valve Mitch let go.

The orange rays of the sunset shot out from behind a distant limestone hill, streaking the clouds above with golden light. When she drew her eyes back down to the ground, everything seemed a little darker.

She couldn’t help but compare it to her life in New York. Despite the rhythmic sound of the compressor running the cricket-head well pump behind her, there was a sense of peace out here that came from being truly alone.

Or at least, as alone as she could manage with another person around.

Especially if that other person was Mitchell MacAllan.

Something about him still attracted her. Not necessarily physically—though that was still in the mix. No, it was the way they slipped into simply being in one another’s company, as if the last ten years hadn’t even happened.

As if that night hadn’t happened.

“Sky’s pretty.” Mitch’s voice was pitched just loudly enough to carry over the sound of the machinery as he stepped up behind her.

“Mm.” Clara’s noise of agreement was lost in the sound of the well working, but she didn’t think Mitch noticed. He had pulled out his phone and was taking photos of the sunset.

“You still do photography?” She spoke without looking at him.

“Some.” He shrugged. “Mostly on my phone when something catches my eye.”

“I didn’t know I missed the sky.”

The comment was mostly to herself, but Mitch answered her anyway. “Don’t get much of that in New York City, huh?”

“No. It’s like. …” She paused, searching for the right words. “Like living at the bottom of a deep canyon. The sun never quite penetrates to the ground. And even if it does—on rare sunny days or in those places where the buildings let the light through—it’s only ever as bright as an early-spring Texas sun. New York’s hottest summer sun doesn’t have the intensity this does.”

“You must like something about it, though. You stay there.” Clara couldn’t see Mitch’s eyes behind his sunglasses, but she could imagine the searching gaze.

Suddenly, even his imaginary scrutiny was too much to bear—because, for the first time since she had left, for just a moment, she couldn’t remember a single thing about New York City she preferred to Necessity, Texas.

She ripped her eyes away from his face, even as she acknowledged that part of her wanted to spend more time examining the planes and angles of his face—tracing out the ways that the softness of youth had hardened into this adult man beside her.

That way lies heartache.

No. Better to change the topic.

“Do you run this route every day?” she asked. They had spent all day going from well site to well site, while Mitch discussed how many barrels of gas and oil each well produced on a daily basis, how many loads in a week or a month, and how much water. She had seen the SWD, or salt-water disposal tanks, where the water pumped up from the ground was stored until it could be pumped back into the ground. She had seen the battery of storage tanks that held oil and gas and water. They had traced the pipeline across the countryside until it passed from one computerized meter to another and the pipes changed color to designate the point at which “gas pumped” became “gas sold.”

Watching Mitch do his job had been something of a revelation. She had spent years convincing herself that their relationship had been a childish whim. In doing so, she had forced herself to forget his sharp, analytical mind. The way he could take apart anything—a problem, a motor, even a teenage girl—and get to the heart of its issue in moments.

He was good at what he was doing out here.

She was glad her uncle had seen that in him and hired him on as foreman.

Apparently her uncle’s talent had been in finding the right people for the job.

Where they had run across people working out on these remote sites—mechanics fixing compressor motors, a crew in a work-over rig scrambling high atop a rickety pump, a welder piecing together two pieces of pipe—Mitch had introduced her as Gavin’s niece and their new boss, and they had greeted her warmly, many offering their condolences on her loss.

Her uncle had been well liked among his employees.

How could Uncle Gavin have had this whole other career, and never mentioned it to me?

Now it was late, and Clara was beginning to droop. They had been driving from site to site virtually from sunrise to sunset, and from what Mitch had said, they still weren’t done. Clara still had half a sheaf of paper printouts in her folder on sites she hadn’t yet seen.

Mitch was shaking his head as he answered her question. “No. I usually spread it out over the week, interspersed with whatever troubleshooting I need to do in any given day.”

“Are you usually out here this late?” Clara’s coffee had worn off before noon, and the Dr. Pepper she had grabbed when they crossed a rare highway and stopped at a convenience store wasn’t holding up much better. She turned to take in the view again. On the other side of a nearby fence, longhorn cattle grazed peacefully, their horns stretching out to the side, backlit by the sunset. A white-faced calf pushed its head under the bottom wire, stretching its neck to try to reach a tuft of grass on the other side.

“Sometimes. But other days, I’m done before mid-afternoon. It all evens out eventually.” Mitch tilted his chin toward the truck. “You ready to call it a day?”

For a moment, she considered trying to tough it out, to show Mitch …

Show him what?

Nothing. She had absolutely nothing to prove to him.

And nothing to gain from it, even if she did.

As entertaining as this had been—and as much as she had learned today—she wasn’t actually here to evaluate the company. She had already made her decision to sell.

I’m only going through the motions here.

As soon as I’ve done the bare minimum to meet the requirements of Uncle Gavin’s will, I’m packing up and heading home.

She stared down at the scuffed toes of the worn cowboy boots she had, indeed, found in the back of her closet at her uncle’s house, and tried not to wonder why that thought didn’t make her feel any happier.

* * *

Today, Mac needed to show Clara why this company was important—not just to him, but to everyone in the town.

Of course, Mac could make all the resolutions he pleased, but if Clara wouldn’t even speak to him, he was going to have a hard time convincing her that anything about Aerio was significant.

Other than the numbers, anyway. As soon as she got in the truck that morning, Clara dug the folder out from under the center armrest and began poring over the various figures he had laid out for her.

She was smart. She was going to figure out the main issue soon enough.

He needed to convince her to keep the business before she put it all together.

Not that he wanted to trick her, merely delay that realization for a little while.

Mac set her coffee in the cup holder and headed out of town. About ten minutes into the drive, he spoke. “We are going to be spending a lot of time together over the next week. We have to talk about something.”

Clara glanced from the paper in her hands.

She stared out the window at the puffy white clouds.

“I don’t think I could ever get tired of watching the sky.”

“We covered that yesterday with the sunset,” Mac said wryly.

The look she shot him was half eye-roll, half head-shake, all irritation. “Fine. You talk.”

“What about?” Mac worked to keep his tone pleasant. He suspected that anything even as mild as amusement might send her scurrying back into the safety of the numbers in front of her.

“How about Things I Would Rather Be Doing?” she suggested wryly.

Mac’s snort drew a small smile from her, but she quashed it.

She smiled. I can work with that.

“It’s your topic. You start.” He turned the pickup onto the bumpy county road, sending Clara sliding across the seat, clutching the papers on her lap and grabbing for the handle above the door on her side.

“Fine.” With a sigh, she straightened out the papers, tucked them back into the folder, clipped her pen to the top, and shoved the whole thing into the oversized purse at her feet. “I would rather….” Her voice faded off as she looked back up at the sky, then glanced at the clock on the truck’s dashboard. When she picked up the thread of her sentence again, her voice was quieter, more contemplative. “Right now, it’s eight o’clock in New York. I would rather be stopping by the bodega at the corner of my street to pick up a coffee and bagel. If I hurry, I can catch the subway train and be at the office in twenty minutes. But I don’t have to be there until nine—several of my clients are on the west coast—so I can take my time. I like to walk in the mornings. There’s a park across from my apartment building. Not a big one, but I like to follow the path through it. There’s another subway stop on the other side.”

Again, she glanced out the window. “The sky seems a little bigger over the park.”

When the silence threatened to expand, Mac glanced over at her pale profile. She had closed her eyes as the morning sun highlighted the lines of her face, and his heart squeezed in his chest.

So beautiful.

She had always been beautiful, from the first time he saw her, when they were only kids.

He absolutely could not afford to allow his thoughts to turn that direction. Instead, he followed up on her spoken words.

Keep it simple, man.

“Is it still cold up there?”

His words startled her out of her reverie. “Still cold? In New York, you mean? Yeah. It’ll stay cold, sometimes into May or even June.” A small smile touched her lips. “My first spring there, we had an unusual warm spell, and I went out and bought new spring clothes. T-shirts and capri pants and the sorts of things that usually don’t show up until summer there. The next day I wore one of my new cute, brightly colored skirts to work, and I nearly froze to death. My colleagues clearly thought I was insane.”

It was more than she had said to him at one time in the last ten years. Mac could listen to her talk all day, he realized. It almost didn’t matter what she was saying; the sound of her voice alone soothed him, made him smile. Made his day seem better and brighter.

It always had.

He saw the moment she realized that she had opened up to him a little and decided to shut back down. It was like watching time-lapse photography of a flower blooming, then fading out and dying. His heart ached to see her close in on herself.

He said the first thing that came to mind. “I’d rather be fishing.”

The comment brought a small smile to her face, at least. “Of course you would.”

Mac didn’t wait to see if she suddenly realized that comment betrayed her connection to him. She was clearly prepared to close down anything that seemed like a connection between them.

He had to keep the conversation going.

“Yep. We’ll start spring bass fishing soon.” He gestured toward the back of the pickup. “I’ve got some gear back there to drop off with Bobby later this afternoon for us to use next week.”

“Spring bass fishing. Why bass in particular? Is that based on what you’re allowed to catch, or what’s available at a particular time of year?” She tilted her head as she glanced at him, her brown eyes bright and curious—the same eyes he remembered from all those years ago.

Mac grinned. “Seriously? That’s your question? Where are you from, again? Where did you grow up? How do you not know that?”

Rolling her eyes, Clara stared back out the window and spoke over her shoulder. “I could create a hell of an ad campaign for any product you handed me. I’m damn good at that. I don’t have to know about fishing in Texas.”

He held up one hand in surrender. “Okay, I give. What do you want to know about fishing in Texas?”

“Now that you mention it, I don’t want to know anything.” Her tone was teasing and light, though, not dismissive.

“No. You had a question about why I fish for bass in the spring.” He made sure she heard his snicker and saw the exaggeratedly sad shake of his head.

“Fine.” Crossing her arms, Clara turned to face him. “You have to have a fishing license, yes?”

“I have a lifetime license, yes.” He matched her overly patient tone.

“Does that fishing license limit what kind of fish you're allowed to take home? Or how many? Or anything at all?”

“Yes, it limits both kind and number of fish, unless I’m fishing a privately owned lake.” The teasing had dropped out of his voice, but Mac continued to watch Clara carefully out of the corner of his eye, ready to needle her again if she got too serious. Or if she realized they were having something resembling a real conversation.

“Bass fishing in spring—does it happen then because there are more of them? Or because you're allowed by your license to take more of them home? Or both?”