Cain laughed, his eyes so blue she could barely force herself to look away.
“Well, darlin’,” he drawled, “at least your momma won’t come after us with a danged fryin’ pan this year.”
Ginger flicked her eyes to Woodman, whose shoulders trembled with laughter. Magnolia McHuid, dressed to the nines for her daughter’s sixth birthday party, chasing after the Dub Twins with a frying pan was another of Ginger’s favorite birthday memories. It had almost made the searing pain in her broken arm worthwhile.
Woodman’s fingers slid down Ginger’s arm to her hand, and he uncurled her fingers, clasping them in his.
“Shouldn’t be jumpin’ out of barn doors anymore anyway,” he said gently. “You’re twelve now. A young lady.”
Ginger whipped her head to face him with a frown. Something about his words prickled and annoyed her, but she didn’t linger on it. Cain made sure of that.
“A young lady!” he exclaimed, leaning down to grab his jean jacket and shrug it over his broad shoulders. “Whoo-ee! What a joke! Woodman, you only see what you want to see, cuz!”
“She’s twelve,” muttered Woodman, straightening his back, his fingers tightening around Ginger’s.
“’Zactly! Twelve. She’s a kid.” Cain chucked her under the chin. “And if you ain’t jumpin’, missy, I’ve got places to be.”
Her heart lurched, and she tugged her hand from Woodman’s to place it on Cain’s arm. “But there’s cake!”
“Got somethin’ sweeter’n cake waitin’ for me,” said Cain, winking at her. “Not to mention, we all know I ain’t invited to Miz Magnolia’s festivities.”
“We’ll run up and git you some!” Distraught at the notion of Cain spending her birthday with another girl, she dug her fingers into his arm.
“No, thanks.”
“You can’t just leave!”
“Ouch! Am I missin’ somethin’ here?” asked Cain, jerking his arm away and rubbing over the spot she’d clawed. “Hell, yes, I’m leavin’. I got plans. But before I go, since you’re such a young lady now, Miss Virginia, I guess I could give you a birthday kiss, huh?”
He took a step toward her, the steel toe of his work boot kicking up some dust between them. His blue eyes cut to hers, dancing and sparkling as he approached, looking down into her face. She gasped as she felt his palm land on her left cheek, his skin scratchy but warm. Her heart raced mercilessly, poundingpoundingpounding behind her budding breasts, making her breathless and dizzy. He leaned toward her, his face nearer and nearer, until she could smell him—the tang of his sweat, the spice of his deodorant, the scent of earth and horses and the BBQ ribs he must have had for lunch all mixed up together. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she held her breath, tilting her chin up so he could . . . so he could . . .
His lips—soft and warm—landed on her cheek, and the millions of butterflies already gathered in her chest spread their fluttering wings and beat them against her heart.
His voice, close to her ear, slow and thick as honey, whispered, “Happy birthday, lionhearted l’il gal.”
When her eyes finally fluttered open, he was already swaggering away.
She watched him go—the confident forward motion of his long strides, his tight butt in faded Levi’s, his too-long black hair curling over the collar of his beat-up jacket and glistening in the sun. He was going to someone “sweeter’n cake” and leaving her behind. And though Ginger couldn’t possibly offer Cain what seventeen-year-old Mary-Louise “Big Tits” Walker could willingly provide in some nook or cranny down by the abandoned distillery, it sure did hurt her heart to watch him walk away.
“Oh,” she murmured, the sound small and pathetic on the evening breeze.
Woodman’s hand landed on her back.
“Don’t fuss over him,” he said, his tone annoyed as he watched his cousin go. “He’s always been a jackass, Gin.”
Ginger flashed her eyes up at her friend. “He isn’t!”
Woodman pursed his lips and gave her a “quit bein’ stupid” look, which made her cheeks flush. She dropped her gaze, kicking at the dirt under her boot.
“He’s your cousin,” she said softly.
“And don’t I know it,” muttered Woodman disdainfully.
She looked up to see Woodman brush a piece of hay off his blue gingham buttoned-down dress shirt. He’d dressed up for her party today—crisp khaki pants with an ironed crease down the middle and a fancy-pants new shirt. His hair was held in place with some kind of slick glop, making him look like a junior banker, which made a weird sort of sense since his daddy, Howard Woodman, was president of the Apple Valley Savings and Loan. She glanced forlornly down the lane at Cain. Josiah Woodman would never show up at a party in a torn-up T-shirt and beat-up jeans, even to catch a princess jumping from her tower. He knew better than that. But for some reason Woodman’s Sunday clothes irritated Ginger now, like they felt somehow superior to Cain’s simple duds, and she frowned at him, feeling unaccountably defensive.