Читать книгу Cowboy Comes Home - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 10

MEG AND RIO SETTLED into a routine over the next several days, although she could never be entirely at ease with him. There were too many uncomfortable moments when their idle chitchat turned serious or old shared memories arose from some innocent remark. It seemed to her that their history lurked in the shadows, ready to spring up as suddenly and as lethal as a rattler.

Then there were the instances when Rio got too close physically. Meg was accustomed to avoiding the past. But practically living with a man, especially one as vital as Rio, was disturbing in an immediate way that was impossible to ignore.

She handled that by taking a big step back. Literally and figuratively, no matter how strong the temptation to succumb grew. Since the chemistry between them would always be there, she was counting on getting better with practice. Better at avoiding him. Stronger at resisting.

Not that Rio pushed. Or even tried. He hadn’t made a single move. He was, in fact, scrupulous about giving her the space she needed. Which was fine with her.

Until she began noticing that he seemed to want to keep away from her as much as she tried to avoid him.

That made her wonder.

Sure, he had reason. Not only had she left him, she’d been responsible for almost sending him to jail. But, amazingly, he didn’t seem bitter or angry. He’d practically ordered her to get more comfortable with him.

How could she when he never stuck around?

Every evening, for instance, he retreated to the bunkhouse right after supper. She was grateful at first. Then restless. And curious. There was nothing to entertain him in the cabin—not even a TV or radio. She’d offered to have the satellite-dish company come out to install a second receiver, but Rio had refused. He’d claimed he didn’t watch a lot of TV.

After a week, she’d mentioned that he could hang around after dinner if he liked. It wasn’t that she was looking for company, she’d justified to herself. The baseball playoffs would soon be starting and she’d felt obliged to offer since the Mariners were contenders and he’d once been a fan.

Again, Rio had said no. Then no to a movie on DVD, too. Even when she’d gone out of her way to choose one of the action flicks he’d once preferred.

After that, she was determined not to offer again.

Yet she couldn’t stop wondering what he did with himself. He didn’t drive into town, not even on Sunday, his day off. He’d barely put in an appearance at all that day, except when he’d asked to borrow Renny. He’d gone off on a horseback ride to Eagle Rock, a craggy point near the canyon they’d discovered as kids, pretending they were Lewis and Clark on expedition. He hadn’t asked her to go along, though of course she’d have declined if he had.

So, yeah. She was getting exactly what she’d thought she wanted.

“Great,” she said, standing at the stove scrambling eggs on the seventh day of October. The date was circled on the insurance company calendar she’d hung beneath her mother’s old cuckoo clock. “Just great. Yep. I am greatly relieved.”

At least she should be.

Rio let himself in the back door. “Talking to yourself is a sign of senility or loneliness, I don’t remember which.” He scraped his boots on the welcome mat. “What you need is a dog.”

“What you need is a hat,” she said, glancing at the reddened tips of his ears. “Aren’t you cold?”

He rubbed his hands together before crossing to the coffeemaker and pouring a cup. “I’ll get a hat if you’ll get a dog. Every ranch needs a dog.”

She thrust a plate of eggs and buttered English muffins at him. “A dog requires care and feeding. A hat is just a hat.”

“Except when it’s a cowboy hat. Should I get white or black?”

“Gray.”

“Spotted or solid?”

“Huh?” She pictured him in black-and-white cowhide. No way.

“Long hair or short?”

Her eyes went to Rio’s hair. The military cut was growing like stinkweed. The ends of his hair were already long enough to brush his collar. He looked more like the boy she remembered. Or maybe it was that she’d been getting used to the man he’d become, stranger though he’d remained.

“The dog,” he said.

“Right.” She forked up her eggs. Her appetite had improved. In the short time since Rio had moved to the ranch, she’d put on a pound or two. She figured that was just a by-product of feeling obligated to feed him well. Not anything to do with being happier. “I like mutts.”

“What size? You haven’t turned into the kind of girl who goes for an itty-bitty pocket dog, have you?”

She rolled her eyes. “You have to ask?”

His gaze lingered on the layered long-sleeved tees and favorite pair of Levi’s 501s that had practically become her uniform. “Guess not.”

She pushed away her plate with more force than necessary. “Today’s the auction.”

“I remembered.” She saw that he had. He was handsome in a fresh white shirt and practically new jeans. She did not let her gaze linger.

He indicated her almost-full plate. “Nerves took your appetite?”

“I don’t have anything to be nervous about.”

“No? Then I guess it’s only me.”

She frowned. Rio had always been the solid, silent type, but she didn’t remember him being so maddeningly obtuse. All week, he’d kept to himself, giving away nothing of his thoughts or plans.

How dare he follow her separation edict so strictly! If she hadn’t been so frustrated, she would have laughed at the irony.

Instead, she frowned more deeply. “What are you talking about?”

“You and me,” he said easily enough. “We’ll be out in public together for the first time since you hired me. Kind of a debut, you know?” Cocking his head to one side, he said, “We’ll be the center of attention.”

“Heaven forbid,” she said, but she wasn’t convinced. “You’re wrong. No one will care.”

Fortunately, the auction was in Laramie, over a hundred and fifty miles away. “As far as anyone’s concerned, we’re simply boss and employee, minding our own business.” They might run into acquaintances, but it wouldn’t be like parading down Range Street hand in hand, with everyone from her neighbors, the Vaughns, to the gang at Edna’s gawking at them.

Rio tossed off a cocky salute, a habit he’d taken to whenever she got to sounding too bossy. “Whatever you say, Sarge.”

She wrinkled her nose. “If you’re finished with breakfast, let’s go.” She cleared the table, scraping the dishes and leaving them in the sink instead of loading the dishwasher. “The riding horses won’t be on the block until the afternoon, but I want to get there early enough to inspect the available stock.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Young, green and cheap.” She wiped her hands on her back pockets. “Will you help? You always had an eye for horseflesh.”

His gaze had skimmed across her. Whatever he’d seen had made his eyes gleam like jet. “Sure, I’ll help.”

After the week together but apart, Meg felt good to have him look at her with some interest again. She stepped away quickly, before the urge to prolong the moment took hold. “Let’s get a move on. It’s at least a two-hour drive.”

THEY TOOK HER CAR. Meg kept the radio on for most of the drive, punching the buttons to switch stations whenever she became impatient. Rio teased her for the short attention span. She teased him right back for stabbing his left foot on the floor every time she zipped around a slow vehicle.

“You drive the same way you used to.” The car swerved. He made an exaggerated grab for the door handle. “I felt less at risk during a mortar attack.”

“Balderdash. I haven’t been in an accident in two years.”

“Two whole years, huh. That’s comforting, but…” He chuckled. “‘Balderdash’?”

“An experiment.” She lifted her chin. “Remember, I’m trying to cut down on the curse words. But there aren’t many options that don’t sound as corny as Nebraska. Horsefeathers, baloney, bull puckey.” She waved a hand at an approaching vehicle wavering toward the center line. “Golly gee, look at that jerkweed in the bat-rastard Jeep!” She scoffed. “You see? It’s hopeless.”

Rio shifted his legs. They were too long for the Camaro. “What’s with the self-improvement kick? No drinking, no swearing, no caffeine, no, uh, dates. Is it self-improvement or self-denial?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“Not always.”

“Name a situation where it’s not.”

“Easy. I went to night school for eight years, off and on. I improved myself with no pain.”

“I don’t know about that.” She considered. “You gave up all your free time. That’s a denial.”

“Hmm. Maybe…”

“Damn straight.” She bit her bottom lip. “Oops. I meant darn tootin’.”

He laughed. “A few damns and hells don’t shock me.”

“I’m not doing it for you.”

His mouth canted. “Prickly.”

They rode in silence for a few miles before she cleared her throat. “Did you really do that? Get a college degree?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.”

He looked at her sidelong. There was a world of meaning in those two words, since she was the reason he’d forfeited his scholarship to college. By his reckoning, the delay had been worth it. Back then, he’d have done anything for her. Possibly he still would.

But did that include deep-sixing—or at least severely altering—his memoir?

“What did you study?” she asked. “I remember when you wanted to be a biologist.”

“I was seven. And into frogs.”

“After that it was a mechanical engineer.”

“Only because I thought that meant I’d design cars.”

“And you were going to be a baseball player, too.”

“Every kid has that dream.” He’d dropped the idea pretty fast when Billy Stone had turned nasty over his father giving Rio a baseball glove for his birthday, an extremely rare gift that neither boy had known how to handle. Billy had been chubby and awkward, without an athletic bone in his body. Being only a few years apart in age, they’d buddied around some as youngsters. As they’d grown older, Billy had become more competitive over his father’s limited time and attention.

“What about you?” Rio asked Meg. “I don’t remember you having a burning ambition for anything except leaving—”

Her wince stopped him short.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing.”

Burning ambition. Stupid choice of words, but apologizing would make it worse.

Although he sincerely doubted that it had been deliberate, the fire she’d set on the night she’d finally run away for good had burned the Vaughns’ old hay barn to the ground. Two squad cars and the volunteer fire department had shown up, along with half the town. Rio had turned himself in early that morning, when Deputy Sophie Ryan had come to the Stone ranch saying that he’d been spotted leaving the barn before the fire. No fool, the deputy had pressed Rio hard on the question of Meg’s whereabouts. He’d insisted he’d been the only one there.

They’d had no choice but to believe him, especially after he’d taken the deal the judge had offered at what was supposed to be his arraignment. The judge, a Stone family friend, had been pressured to hurry the case along…and keep the senator’s name out of it. Rio was given a choice. Join the army or face charges. For Meg’s sake, he’d capitulated. Even so, his downfall had been the talk of the town. In fact, given the pace of life in Treetop, the arson was probably still the most notorious crime in recent history.

“You never got to college?” he asked Meg.

“You know how I felt about school.” She thrust her head forward, her fingers tense on the wheel. She was speeding fifteen miles above the limit.

He returned to her question. “I went in planning to study business, but I came out with a degree in contemporary literature. My favorite class was creative writing.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not what you expected from a rank-and-file leatherhead?”

“Well, no. But I always knew you’d accomplish anything you set your mind to.” She gave him a pointed glance. “So how come you’re my stable hand?”

He shrugged. “Call it a holding pattern.”

“Holding for what?”

“I’m working on that.”

He didn’t want to tell her about the book. Not just because publication would prove him a liar. It was also her cynicism. And that she was holding back her own secrets.

But the main reason was that he’d only just begun to work his way into the project. It was still too private and new. For the past week, he’d been expanding the pieces he’d written as previous blog entries, trying to shape them into some kind of proposal for the publishers. He wasn’t convinced he had enough of a story to make a memoir beyond his experiences in Afghanistan, from brutal to banal.

The more personal revelations were a trickier proposition. So far he hadn’t touched them. Turning over the rocks and digging up the dirt, especially in public, would take every ounce of dogged grit he possessed.

Ruthlessness, too.

With some of those involved, like his biological father, he could be ruthless. Near to it, anyway.

But with Meg? That was harder to imagine. He’d never been capable of hurting her. This time, he would have to.

THEY ARRIVED at the auction, which was held in an immense barn at an exposition center. Leaving the low-slung Camaro among a lot filled with SUVs, trucks pulling trailers, and other gas guzzlers, they made their way inside. After stopping to register, they headed directly to the stalls and a small holding corral where the riding horses were being kept. The air was ripe with the earthy scents of leather, livestock and fodder.