Cowboy Comes Home. Carrie Alexander
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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.
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