Spring Fires

  Spring Fires

  By

  Leigh Richards

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  "Come Here!"

  "COME HERE!"

  "Why should I?"

  "Because you're my wife!" Swiftly, he crossed the intervening space and grasped her tightly, his fingers digging into her arm. "Don't move away from me!"

  Although she tried to pull back, his hold was too strong. "Let me go!"

  "No! You're my wife. I can do practically anything I want." His jaws clenched.

  "This is the twentieth century… I have rights!"

  "Oh, really," he drawled menacingly. "So do I." He ran his hands across the silky fabric covering her shoulders and neck. His eyes flickered over her. "Admit you are ready and willing!"

  LEIGH RICHARDS is an American author whose vivid prose brings to life her fascinating characters and ever-changing landscapes. Her intriguing plots will continue to surprise and delight her many readers.

  Dear Reader,

  Silhouette Romances is an exciting new publishing series, dedicated to bringing you the very best in contemporary romantic fiction from the very finest writers. Our stories and our heroines will give you all you want from romantic fiction.

  Also, you play an important part in our future plans for Silhouette Romances. We welcome any suggestions or comments on our books, which should be sent to the address below.

  So enjoy this book and all the wonderful romances from Silhouette. They're for you!

  Silhouette Books

  Editorial Office

  47 Bedford Square

  LONDON

  WC1B 3DP

  Copyright © 1980 by Leigh Richards

  First printing 1981

  ISBN 0-340-26125-0

  To All My Friends Who Helped Me

  Chapter One

  Stacy Davidson gazed out across the green acres of grazing land to the billowing black clouds of smoke which the unrelenting winds had carried across miles of the eastern horizon where the sun was attempting to proclaim the beginning of another day. The newly drilled oil well had blown out and the ensuing fire had been burning out of control for thirty-six hours. Her father, Bob Davidson, was out at the site directing his roughnecks as they valiantly fought to control the fire and save their equipment. Too restless to nap during a break, Stacy paced the ground in front of the trailer. Her normally vibrant features were masked by stress and exhaustion. Drooping lids hid her dark brown eyes and violet circles pronounced a lack of sleep.

  Her eyes shifted away from the fire to the empty road which came from the north. Stacy strained to catch the first glimpse of whirling dust heralding the arrival of the Jeep. Her father's assistant, Paul Elmwood, had driven to the nearest air field to meet the private plane of Drew Pitman, the famous oil-well fire-fighter. In such emergencies, most drilling companies contracted his unique skills and courage to evaluate and extinguish the blazing hellfires. With his highly trained fearless crews, Drew had handled fires where standard techniques had failed at drilling sites scattered throughout the southwestern United States and Gulf of Mexico.

  Finally, Stacy's vigil was rewarded as small clouds of dust appeared on the horizon. She crossed her fingers and prayed that this was the expected arrival. Drew Pitman had waited until dawn to fly in from Houston.

  Startled out of her contemplations, Stacy turned as she heard the familiar sound of a pickup coming from the direction of the oil rig. Her puzzled expression was replaced by a look of concern as her father climbed down from the truck to join her. The effects of long hours of back-breaking work were all too apparent. His usual brisk pace was gone, his broad shoulders were bent, and his greying hair completed an image of a tired old man; he was only fifty-eight years old.

  She fixed an encouraging smile on her face and pointed to a Jeep rapidly tearing up the miles. "That should be them," she guessed.

  "None too soon," said Bob tersely as he followed the Jeep with his eyes.

  Stacy firmly suppressed her desire to comfort him; this was neither the time nor the place. What her father needed, she thought wistfully, was sleep; but he could not relax until the crisis had passed. Instead, she watched the grimy Jeep, now recognizable by the bright red company insignia emblazoned on its side. Two men were seated in it.

  Bob Davidson stood numbly until the Jeep pulled up. Then he walked over to the passenger side as the newcomer leapt out.

  The tall stranger held out his powerful right hand to the older man. "Drew Pitman," he said confidently.

  "Good to meet you, Drew. I'm Bob Davidson." His voice sounded brighter and he squared his shoulders as he shook the younger man's hand.

  Stacy stood by, quietly listening as Drew Pitman thrust pleasantries aside and stated, "I must visit the site immediately. The weather forecast is bad, so we need to move fast."

  "Fine," returned Bob. "We'll take my pickup and Paul can follow in the Jeep. I'll fill you in on the casing and well head."

  "Good. Let's go!"

  Watching the men leave, Stacy was heartened by the positive reaction of her father to this "expert". Her eyes focused on Drew Pitman's retreating figure. His head topped Bob's six feet by several inches. He was a big man in a big job. Everything now depended on his skill and knowledge. She had assumed that he was much older since she had heard so many tales of his exploits, but he appeared to be in his early thirties. His features were set in ruggedly masculine lines; the firm planes of his cheeks and jaw were softened only slightly by thick, wavy, sun-streaked blond hair falling across his forehead and curling over the collar of his blue work shirt. His long legs easily carried him over the rough ground to the pickup. The movements of his hard muscular body conveyed an image of a champion athlete whose controlled looseness was tempered imperceptibly by the anticipation of meeting a worthy challenger.

  A shuffling of feet to Stacy's left interrupted her thoughts. Turning, she saw Paul Elmwood waiting to speak with her and could not avoid an instant comparison. Paul's mildly pleasant features and light brown hair diminished his substance, while Drew's were powerfully solid.

  "Yes, Paul? Is there something you need?" Stacy was irritated by the shortness of her voice.

  Paul shifted his bulk from one foot to the other before he answered, "How are you holding up?"

  "Just fine. Probably better than most."

  "That's good. You should take care of yourself." His voice held a possessive note which startled her.

  "Paul, until this crisis is over we all have to set aside our personal needs."

  "But a woman doesn't have as much stamina as a man."

  "Oh, really?" Her voice was cool, but her mind seethed. Quickly she reminded herself that this was not the time for a discussion of the capabilities of men versus women.

  Oblivious to her irritation, Paul said, "I'll be going."

  "Okay. See you later." Stacy was relieved to see him leave and did not wait until he had started the Jeep before she went back into the trailer.

  She spent the next hour working steadily, putting together a variety of thick meat sandwiches, pitchers of iced tea, and pots of hot coffee. It took her several trips to carry everything outside to the long utility table set up for the men. Next she checked the supplies of food and called in the delivery order to the grocery store in the nearest town.

  As Stacy hung up the phone, her ears picked up the sound of engines; she hurried out with the pitcher of iced tea and the coffeepot. After all of the men were served, she headed back to her trailer for a break.
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br />   The trailer had been her home for the past several weeks since the well had passed ten thousand feet. Usually the team put up in motels near the site. But due to the forty-mile distance, they had opted for travel trailers at a recreational vehicle camp five miles from the well. Stacy shared one with her father.

  The quarters were cramped; the living area was filled with office equipment—a desk with a swivel chair and filing cabinets—and, for comfort, a small tweed sofa. To the left next to the kitchen were four vinyl-covered dinette chairs and a Formica table which could be folded down against the wall. The kitchen itself was compact, with a two-burner stove, stainless-steel sink, and a built-in refrigerator. Cabinets above the work counter held dishes and glassware while a small broom closet doubled as a pantry. Cartons of extra foodstuffs were set in the corner along with a large cooler filled with beer and ice.

  Stacy was leaning back in one of the chairs with her feet propped up on the desk when the door opened. Her father entered first, followed by Drew Pitman, Paul bringing up the rear. Instantly the room was charged with energy. She hastily dropped her feet to the floor and stood up awaiting instructions.

  Bob requested shortly, "Coffee."

  Drew spared Stacy a penetrating glance before he dropped several papers on the desk. "Let's review this plan."

  Bob and Paul huddled around the desk listening intently to Drew's authoritative recommendation.

  Stacy went to the kitchen. She had held in reserve a Thermos of coffee which she swiftly poured out into thick white mugs. She added jars of creamer and sugar and spoons to a tray and carried it over to the men.

  Drew raised his head as he heard the gentle rustling movements of Stacy's denim-clad legs. Stunned by the devastating effect of his midnight-blue eyes, she paused momentarily; but she quickly collected her jangled nerves to serve her father and Paul. As she held out the last mug to Drew, she was caught again by the spell of those eyes and found it impossible to control the slight tremor in her hand. She fervently hoped he would not notice, but she saw, in his derisive smile, understanding. She pointedly turned to her father. "Anything else?"

  Drew answered for them all. "Not right now."

  She glanced back as he lifted the corner of his mouth in a provocative smile that would liquidate the resistance of any red-blooded female.

  I will not let him get to me, Stacy told herself firmly. He is just an arrogant male, accomplished at practicing his masculine charms on every available woman.

  She stepped back from the desk, about to return to the kitchen, when Bob forestalled her retreat.

  "Stacy, I haven't introduced you to Drew Pitman." He looked at Drew and smiled proudly. "This is my daughter, Stacy. She's my personal secretary as well as temporary cook for the crew."

  Stacy hesitated and then answered with unconcealed formality, "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Pitman." She awkwardly extended a pale slender hand, which was immediately enveloped by firm fingers.

  "Hello, Stacy. Too bad the men don't have enough time to appreciate such an attractive cook."

  Her eyes dropped to conceal the sparks of resentment as she sensed an underlying censure in his comment.

  Paul, not to be excluded any longer, pompously interjected, "Stacy is an amazing girl."

  The blue eyes continued their sardonic appraisal. "I'm sure she is."

  Stacy's expression was decidedly frosty as she ignored his quip and pivoted on her heel to walk back to the kitchen.

  Her hands were busy but her mind burned with annoyance over Drew's condescending attitude. What right does he have to judge me? I may work for my father, but I put in long, hard hours! She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. No man can do any better!

  Out of the corner of her eye, Stacy unobtrusively watched the subject of her anger. After the men had completed the final details for their attack on the fire, Drew moved decisively to the phone and dialed. "John, I want your crew on this one. How soon can you get here… ? Good." He listed the specific equipment he wanted and gave directions.

  Drew replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair to drink his coffee. He let his eyes wander over the walls of the room until they were arrested by Stacy's restless movements.

  The hairs on the back of her neck tingled as she sensed someone watching. She glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder and caught Drew's watchful regard. Challenged by his stare, she continued to focus on him, attempting to return a disinterested look. It lasted until he slowly closed one eye in an exaggerated wink.

  Oh, this is silly! she admonished herself, and she shrugged a shoulder derisively as she turned back to her task. What nerve! The insolent…

  Stacy, distracted, clumsily fumbled with the lid she was replacing on the creamer jar. Everything slid through her fingers and she muttered an oath as it shattered on the linoleum. Quickly she stooped down to pick up the fragments, swearing softly as a sliver pierced her index finger, sending a shot of pain up her arm. Conscientiously, she dropped the shards into the trashcan before grabbing a paper towel to check the flow of blood.

  The next instant Stacy felt strong fingers clamp around her wrist, lifting her injured hand.

  "Just what have you done?" Drew bit out.

  "I dropped a jar and was cleaning up the mess," returned Stacy pugnaciously.

  "Without a broom?"

  "I forgot."

  "Oh, Lord, save me from impetuous females." Drew rolled his eyes dramatically and then trained his eyes on her. "Where is your first-aid kit?"

  "In that cupboard above your head." But she added swiftly, "I'll take care of it myself."

  "Like you took care of the jar? Hmmm… ? Just cooperate."

  The penetrating tones did not pierce Bob's thoughtful silence, but Paul looked up questioningly. Stacy shook her head in answer to his unspoken concern.

  Long, dexterous fingers gently probed the wound for more glass. Then Drew held her hand over the sink to thoroughly clean it with soap and water. After he applied medicated ointment, he wrapped it with a Band-aid.

  "There, that should take care of it, but keep it dry."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Stacy could not suppress her sarcastic retort.

  "Don't get cheeky with me, girl. You don't know what you're letting yourself in for," admonished Drew with a flick of his finger against her cheek to emphasize his warning. "Now, be a good girl and go sit down while I sweep up."

  Stacy clamped her teeth together and sauntered over to the sofa, secretly relieved to collapse and rest her weary body.

  "I'm ready to get back out," Drew said as he returned to the men.

  "I'm with you." Bob rose. "Paul?"

  "Yes," said Paul as he dragged himself to his feet.

  Bob turned to Stacy. "Drew's team should get here in two or three hours. Until then, try to rest."

  "Okay, Dad." Her voice softened. "Anything else I can do?"

  "No. Thanks, anyway. We'll see you later."

  "Bob, I'll drive," Drew offered as he strode over to the driver's side of the Jeep.

  Bob nodded briefly in agreement. Paul scrambled in back as Drew gunned the engine and the Jeep disappeared, hidden by a cloud of dust.

  Stacy wandered back into the trailer, her mind involuntarily occupied by the perplexing man. His thoughtful consideration for her father was the antithesis of his condescending treatment of her.

  "What a male chauvinist!" she mused. "But thank goodness I don't have to put up with him much more."

  Stacy tossed restlessly on her narrow bed; her eyelids fluttered open. The early afternoon sunlight was streaming through the open window blinds. She realized that she must have dozed off. Abruptly, she sat up rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  The whine of large diesel engines could be heard through the thin walls of the trailer, alerting her to the imminent arrival of Drew's crew and equipment. She swung her legs off the bed and rose groggily. Within seconds she regained her equilibrium. She smoothed down the bright yellow gingham blouse, tucking the tails into the snug-
fitting waistband of her jeans. The outfit clung closely to the supple curves of her youthful figure. Stacy quickly retied a bow in her hair to bring a bit of order to her unruly chestnut curls. Although the style was efficiently practical, it revealed the firm graceful lines of her cheeks and throat.

  Two dusty blue trucks, branded with the white letters of Drew Pitman's company logo, stopped directly in front of the trailer as Stacy flung open the door. Hurriedly stepping down, she was met by a stocky crewman with a ruddy complexion.

  With her normal self-assurance, Stacy introduced herself, adding, "My father and Mr. Pitman are waiting for you at the oil rig. I'll show you the way."

  The crewman spoke with a classical east Texas twang. "Well, thanks, little lady. I'm John Mitchell, and that there is Mark Jeffries. Come on along."

  Without giving him a second to reconsider, Stacy scrambled up in the cab and slammed the door shut.

  In no time John had the truck lumbering along the rutted dirt track. While Stacy was sure he was a serious-minded fire-fighter, she was amused as he kept his eyes more on her than on the road.

  Stacy glanced out the window and caught her reflection in the side mirror. Looking more closely, she suddenly realized that her blouse was gaping open; several buttons had worked themselves loose. She blushed crimson and unobtrusively turned sideways to furtively rebutton her shirt. As she leaned back in her seat, she was hard pressed to control a chuckle when she noticed both men's earnest concentration on the road ahead.

  The hours of waiting had taken their toll; now Stacy felt compelled to witness firsthand the desperate battle at the rig. One-quarter mile from the well, the black smoke and unnaturally heated air stung her face and she immediately gained a personal appreciation for the men who had worked day and night under these torturous conditions. The sulfurous smell alone almost overpowered her.