The sharp crack of a branch made her flinch, and she whirled around as Wyatt emerged from the bushes, a long, straight branch clutched in one hand as a makeshift cane. His face was sheened with sweat from pain and, she suspected, the effort not to let her see how much it hurt. In his grubby jeans and sweatshirt, with his hair rumpled and a streak of dirt down the side of his neck, he was hardly recognizable as the man who’d greeted her when she arrived in Pendleton.
She willed her racing heart to just give it a rest, and gestured toward the pile of pine needles she’d scraped together in the rock niche. “Have a seat on our couch.”
As Wyatt hobbled around and sank down with a nearly silent sigh of relief, she laid a larger branch on the fire.
“What time is it?” she asked.
He squinted at his watch. “Almost ten.”
“And the sun rises at…”
“Around five. But it’s light enough to get out on my bike by four thirty.” He spoke with the assurance of a man who had done it. By choice. Geezus.
So…seven hours until daylight. Alone in the freaking wilderness with Wyatt and the knowledge that all of those muscles felt just as good as they looked, and his body put off more heat than her slowly growing fire. That was so not going to happen. Thanks to Michael, she was already enough of a cliché. She would not add We only got naked to stay warm…I swear.
She started to toss a short, smooth chunk of wood onto the fire, then stopped, turning it over in her hands before eyeing Wyatt’s walking stick. “How are you at whittling?”
“What?” He looked at her as if she’d spoken in tongues.
“You know, that thing old men do on front porches while they gossip about the neighbors?” She made a carving gesture before holding up her piece of wood. “This is the right size and shape. Make a hole in the side of it and a peg on the end of your stick, put them together, and you’ll have a decent crutch. While you work on that one, I’ll find the pieces to make another.”
“Good idea,” he said, grudgingly, as if annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it first.
And maybe, if what the old men said was true, the work would soothe the grumpy beast. She stood, sucking in a breath as her various bumps and bruises made their presence known. Visions of the slipper tub and that sinfully comfortable bed danced in her head, and she nearly groaned.
“Are you okay?” Wyatt asked, his gaze sharpening.
“I feel like I’ve been beaten with broomsticks, but I’m not hurt.” And they both understood the difference between pain and a true injury.
She fished the multi-tool from her pocket and tossed it to him. He plucked it out of the air with one hand and leaned closer to the fire to unfold and inspect the various attachments—four different screwdrivers, bottle and can openers, even a corkscrew—then folded the two halves around and tested the result.
“I should get one of these,” he said, opening and closing the pliers.
“You’d be amazed how often it comes in handy. Just last week, I used it to fix a loose handle on my drawer…” On the desk that wasn’t hers anymore. She scowled into the fire. “Hank gave it to me. He said I needed to be ready for emergency wine parties.”
Wyatt was silent for a long moment. When she looked up, he was staring down at the tool in his hands, and she knew he wasn’t thinking about how much he wanted a good Chardonnay.
“Have you found anything?” she asked quietly.
“I know where he’s not, and where he hasn’t been. And that covers damn near every rodeo from California to North Carolina.” His forehead knotted in frustration. “I’m missing something. Another place he could be working that’s outside my usual contacts.”
Finally, surrounded by black emptiness as deep as a grave, she gave voice to her darkest fear. “You don’t think he might be—”
“No.” The denial was reassuringly abrupt. “He got himself into some kind of a bind, and he’s too proud to ask you for help. Now that the summer rodeos are starting, he’ll show up somewhere.”
The devil made her point out the flaw in his argument. “Wouldn’t you have heard if he’d signed on anywhere?”
“If it was a pro rodeo. But there are all the regional associations, high school rodeos, open rodeos, unsanctioned bull-riding events…” He shook his head. “Even I can’t keep track of all of them. There’s enough contestant crossover between all the different levels, though…someone will see him.”
“While we just wait?”
Wyatt took the time to compose his answer, which meant he was deciding what parts of the truth to tell. “I’ve made other inquiries. If he’s had any issues with his finances, or with the law…”
In other words, if Hank was in jail and hadn’t bothered to use his one phone call to ask his sister or any of his friends to post bail, or if he was hiding from debt collectors. Dark possibilities slithered through her mind—a drunken car accident, an enraged husband, a bookie looking to collect on an overly ambitious bet. So many ways a man could get in serious trouble when he had a habit of acting first and thinking later.
“Melanie. Don’t.” Wyatt’s voice was almost gentle. “There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation—”
She jerked her chin up and glared at him. “I know how my brother is. If he’s okay, chances are he’s done something so bad he’s ashamed to tell me.”
Wyatt didn’t bother to argue. She tossed the smaller piece of wood to him, and he began working out how to fit the two together. The fire was burning strong, so she added a couple of the largest logs she’d been able to scavenge. As she started to scoot around to the other side, she belatedly realized just how little space there was in that handy corner. She and Wyatt would have no choice but to sit practically hip to hip.
Or she could stay on this side. She glanced over her shoulder. The darkness pressed down around them, trailing cold fingers across the back of her neck. The weight of it seemed like more than her pitiful little fire could fend off. And here up north there were bears and cougars and even wolves in some places. How many of them prowled these mountains, waiting to leap out of the shadows?
If she asked, Wyatt could no doubt quote the statistics off the top of his head, along with their odds of being attacked.
She hesitated, then started at the hoot of an owl. She slanted a quick glance at Wyatt to see if he’d noticed and caught him looking away. Damn. He never missed anything. But at least he hadn’t mocked her outright…yet. And if she had to choose her evils, she’d go with the one that didn’t have actual claws or fangs. Wyatt looked solid. And warm, tucked back where the rock contained and reflected the heat of the fire. And he could beat off most predators with that stick.
She shuffled around to where her butt was barely on the edge of the mat of pine needles she’d made as a cushion against the hard, increasingly cold ground. If she angled her feet just right, she could keep at least a foot of space between them, with her back slightly toward him. She latched her arms around her bent knees, wincing as the bruise on her butt made its presence felt.
Time slowed to the speed of Wyatt’s ancient glaciers. Once, on an impromptu overnight stay in the Palo Duro Canyon, she’d claimed she could stare into a campfire forever. Looked like she was going to get to prove it—minus Shawnee, Violet, the s’mores, and the cooler full of beer. With nothing better to occupy her mind, it danced between being painfully aware of Wyatt’s nearness, the ache in her butt, and imagining cunning, hungry eyes watching her from out there.
She checked her phone. Three whole minutes had passed. Only four hundred and twenty-eight to go, and no way she was going to sleep. She pulled her little notebook and a pen out of her pack and opened it to her notes. Her motives for inviting Wyatt along on what was turning out to be their version of a three-hour tour hadn’t been entirely about extending the ol’ olive branch. She’d also hoped to lull him into a mellow mood before launching her Wh
o is Wyatt Darrington? project.
He was not mellow. But he was a captive subject, and she would go bonkers if she didn’t do something.
She cleared her throat. “As long as we’re stuck here, and there’s nothing better to do…I might as well go ahead and irritate you some more.”
“Are you going to start whistling some non-song over and over?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Who does that?”
“Joe. When he’s driving, because he knows I can’t strangle him while we’re doing eighty on the interstate.”
“No wonder he and Shawnee get along so well.” She shifted, turning toward him. She needed to see his responses, not just hear them. She held up the notebook. “I have a few questions.”
“I didn’t realize there would be a test,” he deadpanned. “I would have studied.”
“This is a pop quiz. I want your first, most honest response, not what you think you should say or what I want to hear.” She purposely angled her chin. “If you can manage that.”
The firelight turned his hair and skin to bronze, accentuating the Greek god effect. He met her gaze without blinking. “I can if you can.”
“What?”
“I’ll answer any question you ask—as long as you answer them too.”
“I…” She stared at him for a few beats. She had nothing to hide…exactly. But every one of these questions had been crafted to scrape away the surface and expose the truer self beneath—or so the original author claimed. On the other hand, she had started this. She could hardly back down now. “Sure. Why not?”
The equivalent of an extended version of Truth or Dare with Wyatt, in a situation where neither of them could walk away. What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
Wyatt’s mind raced as he fit the pegged end of his walking stick into the hole he’d bored in the crosspiece, then set the crutch and the knife aside. What was she after? He crossed his injured ankle over the other and leaned back against the rock, lacing his fingers behind his head as if the tension wasn’t taking tiny, sharp bites out of his gut. “What is the point of this test?”
“Your interest in the Bull Dancer is obviously more personal than financial.” Despite her grubby jeans and tangled hair, Melanie had become every inch the professional, her accent fading in favor of more clipped tones. He suspected it was a habit she’d developed on purpose. She would know that there were people outside of Texas who equated a Southern drawl with a dip in IQ, and she wasn’t one to put herself at even the slimmest disadvantage. “I’ve done a fairly thorough analysis of the business climate in Pendleton. This questionnaire is designed to examine your values and goals so I can develop a plan that reflects both.”
Ah. He’d suspected as much. Did she realize how many of these questionnaires he’d administered and taken, both in college and in therapy? How much reading he’d done about the underlying principles? He could spin it so she’d never even suspect he was gaming her little quiz.
Or he could play it straight.
His brain stumbled a little over the idea. What if he didn’t try to outguess her? What if he just…answered? This could be his chance to tell her—without actually telling her—why he’d done what he’d done. Made the choices she might not otherwise be able to comprehend…or forgive.
Hope glimmered faintly in his chest. If there was any path that didn’t lead to exile from everything in Texas that had come to mean the world to him, this could be his first step.
She flipped a page forward, then back again, as if debating where to begin in probing his psyche. Finally, she settled on a question. “Let’s start with an easy one.”
Right. As if anything between them could ever be simple. But maybe, if he took a chance and let down his guard, it could at least be a little clearer.
Chapter 20
All of her questions seemed much too personal now. She had based the questionnaire on one she’d found on an online dating site that promised to reveal your inner selves, but she’d steered clear of anything with obvious romantic intent and adapted the rest to suit a business environment.
This environment was as far from businesslike as she could imagine, but Wyatt’s expectant silence was stretching too long.
She cleared her throat. “Okay. First question. If you’re at a karaoke bar, what song do you sing?”
“I don’t.”
She shot him a surprised glance. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, looking for all the world like he was on a private beach soaking up the sun. “You can’t sing?”
“I said don’t, not can’t. I sang in our church from the time I was eight, and I was a soloist in show choir in high school.”
Of course he was. She could picture him center stage in the East Coast prep version of Glee. “But no karaoke?”
“Not my thing.”
She tried to imagine him belting out a George Strait song to a drunken mob, but even in her mind, he refused to step up to the microphone. He stayed firmly planted with his arms folded and one of those infuriating half smiles, too cool for such foolishness.
Well. She was already annoyed, even if he wasn’t. “Fine. Let’s say you lost a bet and had to. What song would you pick?”
He hesitated, just an instant.
“First thought,” she reminded him.
He opened his eyes to frown at her, then gave a slight shake of his head. “I was going to say the Beatles’ ‘Let It Be.’ But that’s hypocritical.”
“Why?”
“I don’t look to the heavens for guidance.”
Rather than argue the existence of God—she was pretty sure he’d done his research and then some—she took a different tack. “That song is about Mary, who was probably a real person, if you consider the Bible as a historical document. Treating the lyrics as purely metaphorical, calling upon her memory is no different than being inspired by say…Martin Luther King Jr.”
His thoughtful squint made the crows’ feet around his eyes more prominent, and for a moment he looked his age. Nearly forty—and at thirty-four she wasn’t so far behind. How the hell had that happened?
“You could look at it that way,” he conceded. “But I’d sing something else. Maybe ‘Lean on Me.’”
She snorted.
He sliced a glance at her. “What?”
“That’s pretty much you in a nutshell…always there to save the day. But you’re forgetting the second part.”
He frowned again.
“You know. You can lean on me, ’cuz it won’t be long until I need someone to lean on too?” She snorted again. “You’re all give and no take.”
“I prefer to deal with my own problems,” he said stiffly.
“No kidding.” Oops. She was supposed to be going cold turkey on the sarcasm.
“What’s your song?” he asked.
“‘These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,’” she answered promptly. “Shawnee, Violet, and I sang it every time in college.”
Wyatt smirked. “Talk about a theme song.”
“We liked to think so.” She scanned her list and picked the next most harmless question, assuming there was such a thing. “What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t?”
He turned his head slowly and gave her a deliberate once-over that made heat flash from her head to her toes. Then he raised his eyebrows. You really want me to say it?
She tucked her chin and cleared her throat. “Alrighty, then. Moving on…”
“You didn’t answer.”
She could have pointed out that he’d covered it for both of them. Instead, she said, “Shawnee and I used to talk about team roping together at the Women’s National Finals Rodeo.”
“Why haven’t you? You’re both good enough.”
She shrugged. “You know. Time. Work. I had to prioritize.”
“And now?”<
br />
She glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“You have an opportunity to evaluate your priorities, and thanks to Shawnee, you have the horses. Rodeo was a huge part of your life. Don’t you miss it?”
“Of course. I just…” Didn’t have an answer. The old urge was an increasingly insistent tug on her sleeve, but she wasn’t ready to scrap her career in favor of selling ads for the Earnest Herald, and she’d already failed at juggling both.
“Shawnee has Tori now,” she said, and picked what she had considered to be the most provoking question on the list. “If you could change your upbringing, would you?”
“No.”
His immediate answer was the exact opposite of what she’d expected. “Why not?”
“My upbringing”—he gave the word a cynical twist—“has given me advantages I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I like to think I use them to help as many people as possible.”
Oh. Well. She wouldn’t have thought of it that way. And she didn’t like how his quiet declaration made her heart give a little flutter.
“What about you?”
She did hesitate, but she’d made the rules so she gave him the honest answer. “Yes.” Then she hurried to clarify, before he could ask. “For Hank’s sake, not mine. I had some really good years with our parents, but by the time he came along…”
“You’d change your parents but keep Hank.”
She glared at him. “Yes, I would keep my brother. I know that might be hard for you to understand—”
“I’d trade you in a heartbeat.”
She blinked, confused. “Parents?”
“Brothers.” His voice had gone flat. “Mine, the pious prick, in exchange for yours, who doesn’t know what manipulative means.”
Yikes. Bitter much? “Hank still manages to do a lot of damage.”
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