She took a breath, rushing out the words. “Of course, I’ll be watching and moving any animals out of your way that I see. But the most important thing is, everyone needs to make sure to check under their tires before they move their trucks, because that’s the best shade in the desert. All the animals are attracted to it.”
“Don’t they have legs? They’ll run off when I start the truck.”
“The species we’re most concerned with out here are desert tortoises and Coachella Valley or Mojave fringe-toed lizards. Tortoises aren’t known for their sprinting times, and the lizards have a trick where they shake themselves down into the sand to hide from predators. It doesn’t help them much with trucks, unfortunately.” She did a little wiggle, explaining how the lizards got down into the sand, and the curve of her hip caught his attention for a beat too long. He cleared his throat and jerked his gaze up.
But that wasn’t much better, because the delicate lines of her face drew his eye like something he wanted to look twice at, like he couldn’t catch it all with one glance. She brushed a loose ponytail of dark hair back over her shoulder, the silver strands in it catching the sunlight.
Belatedly, he realized he was just standing there like an idiot, staring at her hair. “Tortoises got shells. They’ll be fine.” He didn’t intend to burn up any time worrying about a creature who lived inside a protective casing.
“Yes, but—” She broke off when the wind whipped up into a little dust devil cyclone that sprayed them with sand.
When it passed, she took off her sunglasses to swipe off the dust. Her eyes met his, squinting a little like she was looking for something she hadn’t quite nailed down yet. “They do have shells, true enough. But animals’ shells are rarely thick enough to protect them from the things that truly hurt.”
Her eyes were sky-cast blue, and quiet. His pulse gave a lurch, like a truck’s bumper had just skimmed too close on the freeway.
Jack scowled at her. The last thing he needed on his job site was a good-looking woman. The beautiful ones always expected attention, were used to special treatment. Not to mention his men would be tripping over their own feet, staring at her all day when they should be watching the tower they were climbing.
He had quotas to hit, never mind that they were so ambitious he’d need five more men or would have to get bitten by a radioactive spider if he didn’t want to fall behind. His boss had made it clear that if Jack couldn’t make quota for just one week, he’d find another guy who could. Jack hadn’t clawed his way up to foreman just to become one more deadbeat Wyatt with their name scribbled across a pink slip.
And he wasn’t going to let any biologist slow him down enough to lose this job, no matter how blue her eyes were.
“I don’t give a shit about a bunch of turtles,” he snapped. “Just stay out of our way. You come chasing lizards across my pad, and you get brained by a dropped wrench, your lawyers better not come crying to me.”
A breath escaped her, like she’d almost laughed, and she popped her sunglasses back on. “As if I could afford lawyers.”
A chuckle huffed out of him before he realized what he was doing.
The only people who could pay for lawyers were the ones screwing over the people who actually worked for a living. It was God’s honest truth, and why he couldn’t see a reason in the world for them. Lawyers swooped in to protect you after you’d already taken your beatdown. The fists had flown, the car had been stolen, the lineman had already slipped and fallen off the tower, his blood exploding out of him onto the dirt like a punctured can of spray paint. Jack shook off the memory. Lawyers came in, telling you they could pour spilled milk back into the carton and taking hard-earned money from anybody stupid enough to believe them.
Lawyers were assholes, and he had no use for them. He half liked that she didn’t, either.
“Jack . . .” A whiny voice interrupted them. “The forklift won’t start.”
Jack turned with a ferocious scowl. “Well, dick brain, did you reconnect the battery after I had you clean the terminals yesterday?”
“Oh!” Joey’s eyes brightened. “I forgot. It was quitting time, and I didn’t get a chance to—”
“Well, maybe if you paid as much attention to doing a good job as you did to watching the clock, you could start a forklift without my help.” Jack clapped the apprentice on the back hard enough to send him stumbling, then jerked his chin at Mari. “Get off my pad.” He turned back to his crew.
Bad enough the bios had to stand there all day, watching him work and critiquing his performance just like his family always had. They didn’t need to be underfoot while they did it. It’s like they thought if they took their eyes off him for one second, he’d strangle a dang bunny.
They didn’t need to watch—they’d hear it if he did. Bunnies screamed when you hurt them, when you sliced off their little paws. That had been his brother Leroy’s thing when they were kids, not his. He didn’t need a biologist to tell him he never wanted to hear that sound again.
“Wait, um, sorry, Mr. Wyatt?” she called after him.
Ugly goose bumps clawed to life all across his scarred back at the sound of his family’s name tainting her light, musical voice.
Joey stopped and turned along with him, and Jack nudged the apprentice to send him on his way. Kid would pop visible wood if he looked straight at their new pretty bio. Hell, Jack was a grown man and he’d nearly needed to grab a tool belt for camouflage before he’d gotten his situation under control.
She thrust a clipboard at him, her graceful shoulders pulling back all tight and determined. “I just need your signature that you received the environmental mitigation training.”
Lawyers again. Paperwork never changed anything. Just made it so the suits could claim immunity when one of his guys eventually slipped off a tower. Talking and paperwork wouldn’t save her desert critters any more than it’d save his men. It’d just shift the blame off the head honchos and onto whoever’s name was scrawled on that bottom line.
“Ain’t signing shit.” Jack spat on the ground and walked away.
2
No Glove, No Love
Later that week, Jack climbed down off the tower, the metal pegs hot through his gloves. His safety leash hung off his belt because you couldn’t hitch it in while you were climbing. He didn’t let himself think of anything until he got to the ground.
Hand, foot. Hand, foot. It was a quick rhythm as he descended, but solid. His own strength was the only thing holding him on to the tower and grounding him against five stories of open air below.
Hand.
Foot.
Hand.