The Rancher's Dream. Kathleen O'Brien
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Nebraska, those four words had been her new sworn life motto.
Stay out of everything. No ties. No roots. No attachments to things or people she could lose. She’d be a gypsy, a loner. Get in, get out and nobody gets hurt.
For the first few weeks after Clover’s funeral, she’d done just that. Three towns in three weeks.
But then she’d hit Silverdell, Colorado, and, though she told herself every month that she’d probably leave soon, somehow she never did.
She’d been here thirteen months, more or less.
Clearly that was much too long. Somewhere, over that time, she’d started to feel things. Instead of staying free, cordial but unattached, like a bird on a wire, she’d started getting involved. Making friends.
First Mitch and Belle, and all the Bell River family. And Marianne Donovan, who owned the café and shared Crimson’s love of cooking.
Those weren’t the most dangerous attachments, though. The real threat had snuck up on her. First she’d met Grant Campbell, a nice rancher who had helped her figure out how to mortar bricks when they were paired up to build a playground for the Silverdell Outreach charity she’d gotten involved with.
Then she’d met Grant’s friend and temporary roommate, Kevin Ellison.
And finally, the biggest danger of all, Kevin’s precious, motherless baby, Molly.
At the thought of the warm little bundle of sweetness, her heart squeezed.
Oh, yeah. I’ve got to get out of Silverdell.
But first she had to handle Becky. The pretty blonde had been leafing through Crimson’s sample book for nearly twenty minutes now, exclaiming like a little kid every time she passed a pretty flower or a colorful fairy.
“I just don’t know! They’re all so cute!”
Crimson managed not to groan. Think, think. The girl was obviously nervous, ripe for being talked out of this. She’d come in alone, hovering in the doorway without entering, grabbing the shoulder strap of her purse as if it was a lifeline, and twisting her legs so nervously it looked as if she badly needed to go to the bathroom.
When Crimson had approached her, she’d confessed shyly that she wanted to have her boyfriend’s name, Roderick, tattooed on her left buttock, along with “something pretty.” But she had to wait for Rory to come “give the okay” to the design.
Her body...but his decision? That had been Crimson’s first red flag. If Roderick was that bossy, he probably wouldn’t be Becky’s boyfriend for long.
Crimson collected Becky’s ID, always the first step.
Believe it or not, the girl—woman—was going on twenty-two. Amazing. Crimson was only twenty-six, but she would have guessed she was at least ten years older than Becky.
Still, you could count rotations of the earth around the sun, or you could count life experience. By the latter calculation, this poor kid didn’t seem old enough to drink root beer.
“If you call him Rory, how about getting that tattooed, instead of Roderick?” Crimson raised her brows. “It’s shorter. Cheaper. Less painful.”
And easier to remove or cover up when Becky and Rory split.
“No. He wants the tattoo to be his real name.” Frowning, Becky shifted her sandaled feet nervously on the scuffed black floor and nibbled on her index fingernail. “Why? Does it hurt a lot?”
“It’s uncomfortable,” Crimson said carefully.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pete look up from his station, where he was inking a skull and crossbones on the one clear piece of real estate still left on the forearm of their favorite regular customer, Butchie the bronc rider.
Pete, a sixty-five-year-old former pro wrestler, owned the tattoo parlor, and he’d already warned Crimson he’d have to let her go if she didn’t stop talking customers out of getting work done.
“Some people say it’s very painful,” Crimson said. To heck with Pete’s glare. She’d signed on here as a tech and, at his urging, had learned to ink tattoos over the past few months. She’d become pretty good at it, if she did say so herself. She’d brought in a lot of work. She didn’t turn away the Butchies of the world, who genuinely wanted and loved their tats. Just the people who would end up regretting the decision within six weeks.
Sometimes six minutes.
The way Crimson saw it, she was saving Pete a load of bad publicity from unhappy customers. If he couldn’t see that...
“Tell you the truth, Becky,” she added firmly, “I’ve seen grown men cry.” When Pete growled, she just gave him a bright smile. It was true, so live with it.
Biting her lower lip, Becky flipped a few more pages, though her fingers had become clumsy. They were both silent a few minutes. Crimson considered offering Becky one of the cookies, but decided against it. She didn’t want her to calm down. She wanted her to leave. Without a tattoo.
But when the girl encountered another rainbow-colored fairy, her mouth relaxed, and her blue eyes lit up.
“Oh, that’s adorable!”
Crimson sighed.
Becky held up the plastic-covered picture. “Do you think that would look good above the name Roderick?”
“No.” Crimson stared at the foolish fairy blandly. “Not really. It’s too girly. You wouldn’t want to threaten Roderick’s virility.”
Becky nodded, the sarcasm clearly lost on her. Crimson’s throat tightened as she looked at the sweet, trusting face. Darn it. The poor thing was in love. Capital L, Love. And with an insensitive guy who kept his sheltered girlfriend waiting in a tattoo parlor, getting more scared by the minute. A control freak who wanted his name on her rear end like a brand. His full name.
So maybe a sadist, too. Roderick was twice as long as Rory...
Impulsively, Crimson reached out her hand and caught the slim fingers. “Becky, look, maybe you ought to consider this a little longer.”
She thought fast. What was the secret tunnel into Becky’s psyche? Everyone had one. Even Crimson’s twin sister, Clover, had had one.
Unfortunately for Clover, Crimson had known exactly what it was and how to exploit it. If she hadn’t, Clover might be alive today.
But she wouldn’t let herself think about that right now. Back to Becky.
What was Becky’s secret tunnel? She’d just demonstrated she wouldn’t flinch from the prospect of pain. Crimson tapped her fingers on the table, eyeing the girl thoughtfully. Vanity, maybe?
Might work. The girl’s skin was almost flawless, and her one scar, a small, starry patch of white in the center of her forehead, was mostly buried under several layers of thick foundation. She obviously hated that scar.
“You look like someone who takes good care of your body.” Crimson smiled. “You eat healthy. Work out, right?”
Becky nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“So...think how hard you work to keep your skin so pretty. You don’t let it burn in the sun, and you don’t let it break out or get dry or freckle. You don’t want scars or cellulite...”
Becky was frowning again. The thoughtful furrow on her brow creased around the tiny white scar, giving Crimson hope.
“So are you sure you want to mark it up with permanent ink?” Crimson turned to the back of the portfolio, where she kept her secret pictures, the ones designed to scare the bejeezus out of innocents like Becky. “See this? This is what’s left when you have the tattoo removed. I mean, it’s not awful, but it’s certainly not as pristine as your skin is now.”
She let that sink in a minute before lowering