by CJ Daly
angel-like creature, finding it strange that I didn’t find him sleeping in my
bed the least bit strange.
Tip-toeing to my dresser to pull on some sweats, Pete’s wallet nodded
good morning to me from its post on top of the nightstand. Hmmm. I paused
to finger it speculatively. Looked down guiltily at the innocently unaware
owner of the wallet for even having the thought cross my mind. But now that
it did, I couldn’t quite get it out. Nor could I seem to talk myself out of doing
it, despite the fact that I knew it was wrong. But it wasn’t that invasive, right?
What’s the harm in peeking?
While the angel and devil on my shoulders held a debate, I dared another
peek at the sleeping cadet. I should back out now but knew I wouldn’t. I was
absolutely compelled to do it, almost as if it were calling my name. Diving
in, I quickly rummaged past the slick plastic credit cards until I found what
I was looking for—his driver’s license. My greedy fingers plucked it out for
inspection even as I was being eaten alive by guilt.
Gah. Even his boring, old driver’s license picture looked like a model’s
headshot. The only difference in his appearance was his hair was a bit shorter
in the picture. I sighed. Wasn’t fair, all his gifts. But I already knew that.
• 387 •
Quickly scanning down, I found his birthdate: November 10 . Huh . . . a Scorpio. Filed that snippet away, too. Then I fingered the date, noticing it was slightly raised. Hmmm. Sure enough, that would make him eighteen in
about a month.
But as I studied the state-issued California driver’s license, I knew it was
a fake. Oh, not the driver’s license itself—it came complete with the state seal
and perforated outline of the California brown bear. I was sure it would pass
any government inspection. No, the date of his birth year was wrong.
I just knew it.
I felt such a powerful surge of emotion holding the official document
and knowing it was a fake that I didn’t even notice that Sleeping Beauty had
awoken . . . and was staring at me staring at his driver’s license. A deliberate
throat clearing had me jumping out of my skin. The card dropped, hot from
my hand, landing on the floor between us. Like a bloody knife. After stabbing
him in the back.
“Find anything interesting in there?”
His wallet, still in my hand, was now clutched to my chest. I stammered
and blushed scarlet, my face heating so fast you could practically fry an egg
on it. “P-Pete! You’re awake!” I made it sound like an accusation.
“It would seem so.” He sounded more amused than mad, but it was hard
to tell because he was keeping a straight face. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I, umm . . .” What could I say?
“If you needed some funds, all you had to do was ask.”
I spluttered and gasped. Stealing? He thought I was stealing from him! I was so mortified I could’ve died on the spot. Hot tears sprang to my eyes right
away. “I wasn’t stealin’ money from you!” Was desperate for him to know that.
“I would never do that!”
“Then what were you doing?” I thought I saw Pete’s lips twitch. Did he
think this was funny?
“I was . . . I was just . . .” I swallowed, deciding to just be truthful—it
was less mortifying than being called a thief. “Your age. I was checkin’ to see
how old you really are.”
“And?” he prompted, a distinct smile playing on his lips.
I looked away. Harrumphed. “ It saaaays you’re seventeen,” I said in the same resigned voice a child uses to repeat back to a parent something they’ve
been told over and over.
Laughter busted out of him.
“‘snot funny!” I raged, hurling his wallet at him. “I would never steal
• 388 •
money from you!” I repeated again for good measure, disgusted he would even think that.
“So you’re saying it’s not okay to steal from me, but it’s perfectly okay to spy on me?”
“I—” He got me. “That’s exactly what I’m sayin’.”
Pete leaned back on my headboard, stuffing my fuzzy, pink pillow behind
him. “So . . . did you find anything interesting, Nancy Drew?”
I set a hand on my hip. “Yeah . . . I didn’t take you for an organ donor.”
He chuckled again, clearly more amused than angry. Almost as if he’d set
a trap for me, and was delighted I’d fallen into it. Surely not. Right?
“ Well I’m glad you’ve enjoyed your mornin’s entertainment.” I huffed
over to the dresser to yank out some sweats. I hadn’t accounted on him
spending the night, so was still standing around yapping in nothing but
Mama’s tree hugger T-shirt and cotton underwear. This seemed to only add
to his amusement.
“Lucky trees,” he smirked.
“Ha-ha. Very funny.”
“I’m serious.” His eyes twinkled. “I don’t know why you can’t take a
compliment.”
Not quite knowing how to respond to that, I said, “The boys will be up
soon . . . so you’d better think about gettin’ goin’.” A sigh escaped at the end.
He rearranged the pillow. “Why?”
“So they don’t wake up to find a boy sleepin’ in my bed!”
Pete grinned at me. “Oh, so now that you’ve confirmed I’m seventeen, I’m
suddenly relegated back to being a boy?”
“I didn’t say I believed you were seventeen,” I shot back before stepping
into the bathroom to change. When I emerged, I found Pete clogging up
the hall with his good mood and shave kit. I made to move past him when I
bounced off a well-defined arm.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“To the kitchen. I’m actually famished and need to get breakfast started.”
The earlier amusement left his face. “Are you forgetting you’re not
supposed to do anything but bed rest this weekend?”
“I figured I’d already used up a good portion of my vacation time last
night. And since my father is apparently indisposed . . .” I arched an eyebrow.
“You’re going back to bed, young lady.” I stood in protest, debating the
merits of arguing. “Now!” he practically yelled in my face.
While I slunk off to my room, Pete stepped into the bathroom, emerging
• 389 •
a few minutes later to poke his head into my room. Looked like he’d gotten his beauty sleep.
“I’m making breakfast this morning,” he declared.
I crossed my arms. “This outta be interestin’.”
His mouth quirked up before he left me to my foul mood. In my defense,
my head was still hurting something fierce, and I was still smarting that he’d caught me at such an inopportune time. I just didn’t want to admit to either
one. The boys were up now; I could hear their bright voices wafting through
the walls along with the smells that accompanied breakfast. My salivary
glands began to produce water. Even a vegetarian could still appreciate the
enticing smell of bacon and eggs.
Pete strolled in a few minutes later with a smorgasbord that included more
yogurt, granola with stuff in it I couldn’t identify, an assortment of fruit,
and some very strong-smelling coffee. Yum. I muscled myself into upright
position, wi
ncing again as my sore neck battled it out with the back of my
head for dominance in my mind. But they both lost out to the dapper cadet,
spreading out the breakfast fare on a plastic serving dish with some smiley
bananas painted on it by my eight-year-old self.
“The best I could do on short notice,” he said.
“Impressive.”
He shrug-smiled. “You’re pretty easy to cook for.”
“Still. Just knowing your way around the kitchen is a pretty spectacular
feat for someone of the male persuasion in my household. And no burnt toast
smell to go with the bacon and eggs. I gotta say, Cadet Davenport . . . you got
mad skills, yo.” I forked a piece of strawberry in my mouth.
“Kitchen detail,” he explained with a good-natured grimace.
I laughed, wanting to know the back-story there, but not wanting to
pry open that can of worms in case it spoiled breakfast. “This is great, Pete.
Really. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.” I dug into the granola now using
the big spoon.
“So that’s why I didn’t see any out there.”
I choked on my bite, laughing. “That is so wrong. Actually . . . we used to
have a little Paint horse named Pinto that I used to ride bareback all around
the ranch.”
“Bareback huh?”
Despite the wicked grin, that put a gleam in his eye and hot spots on my
cheeks, I managed to say, “Most of the time, I just jumped right on him in
the pasture and galloped away.”
• 390 •
“I would’ve loved to have seen that—I bet you looked like a wild little Indian.”
My smile turned wistful. “That’s what Mama used to say. She called us
her wild little Indians.” It took a while for me to swallow. “We’re actually part
Cherokee. Mama was half.”
“It’s an interesting and beautiful mix,” Pete remarked, taking a thoughtful
sip of his coffee.
“Yeah, she was really beautiful, but, like, mostly on the inside, if you can believe it. She was the best person I’ve ever known—so nice to everyone. She
volunteered at the church when she could, which wasn’t very often cause
she was the one who ran the ranch and tended the vegetable garden. And
everything seemed to thrive under her care. . . . I’m not doin’ so hot at it,” I
said with a rueful headshake.
The sudden slant of Pete’s eyebrow indicated a difference of opinion, but
he remained quiet so I went on, my mouth seeming to want to gush out the
stored words. “And she was super-smart, too. She did all the bankin’ and tax
stuff and she even home-schooled us kids for a good part of our education.
She just seemed to know so much about everything—random stuff like what
the Latin sayin’s on the back of a dollar bill mean and how to tie, like, twenty
different kinds of knots.”
I stopped there, getting the feeling I was revealing too much. The awkward
silence I filled with a sip of coffee. It was just the way I liked it—extra strong
with cream and a pinch of sugar. I looked up at him. Had I mentioned that?
Pete’s body seemed to have tensed during my little spiel, but his face was
impassive as always. “She sounds like an amazing woman,” he finally said.
“She was.” I took another contemplative sip of my coffee and watched
him do the same.
“What happened to Pinto? Did you outgrow him?”
I shook my head. “Daddy sold him right after Mama died.” I quoted my
father: “‘Horses eat money.’”
“I guess there goes my fantasy of riding off into the sunset with you.”
I chortled at that one. “I can’t picture you on a horse, city-slicker.”
“Oh really?” Pete challenged indignantly. “It just so happens I have a little
horse experience . . . looks like you didn’t read all the brochure.”
“Stopped at the fine print.”
He ignored that to finish: “The Academy keeps a well-stocked stable.
And even has been known to throw polo matches on occasion for expedition
games and fundraisers.”
• 391 •
“You play polo?” I snorted a laugh. “Why am I not surprised? . . . You sure have crammed a whole lot of livin’ into seventeen years, Cadet Davenport.”
“What can I say?—it’s the IEA way. And I didn’t say I played well. I never made the team,” he admitted.
I dropped my jaw. “I’m shocked. Could it be I’ve finally found the one
thing you’re not good at?”
“Looks who’s talking.”
“Hardly,” I said, spooning in more yogurt.
Pete shook his head disapprovingly but remained silent, watching me
chow down while sipping his coffee.
“I feel guilty eatin’ in front of you. Why don’t you go eat with the boys?
I’ll be fine.” I was actually feeling self-conscious with him staring at me but
didn’t want to admit it.
“Already ate—toast and farm fresh eggs.” He broke into another dazzler.
“Maybe I’m missing my calling . . . farm life doesn’t seem half bad.”
“Easy for you to say when you get to escape tomorrow. For good,” I said,
not really thinking about my words until they popped out of my mouth. Then
it hit me—this was probably true. I had trouble swallowing again.
“What makes you think I’m leaving tomorrow?”
Did his voice just go up an octave? I searched Pete’s face for answers, saw the twinkle leave his eyes.
“Dunno,” I shrugged, “just a feelin’ I have, I guess. Anyhow, it’s gonna
be sooner rather than later, isn’t it?” I tossed my spoon aside and looked up
at him with sad-sack eyes.
Pete regarded me carefully while I watched dust motes swirl in the light
above his head. “Honestly,” he said, “I don’t know if there’s much more I can
do here with Andrew. We have all the information we need to make a decision.
All that’s left is the results of the physical coming up on Monday.”
“Aren’t you supposed to not be talkin’ about it with me?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I’m not sure it makes much difference now—either
he’ll pass the physical or he won’t. We’ll see. If he does . . . then he’ll most
likely enter the admissions process, which basically boils down to your father
signing the paperwork.”
“That ain’t gonna happen,” I stated flatly.
Pete looked aggravated, no longer lounging against the wall haphazardly.
“It’s the right place for him, Kate.”
“Is not.” I would keep saying it till the cows came home.
“It’s a great campus—all the bells and whistles. You did hear about the
stable, right?” He didn’t give me a chance to respond before shrugging off the
• 392 •
wall. “I better get off to chores now . . . hi-ho, hi-ho and all that.” He came over, with his half-full cup of coffee, to gather dishes. Seemed like he was in
a rush to leave all of a sudden.
Good mood gone.
“Okay,” I said, smiling a little too brightly, afraid I’d spooked him off.
“Have fun. And thanks—I haven’t been treated to breakfast in bed in ages.”
Pete smiled back with the real deal now. “Well you deserve it. Now get
some rest.” He turned to go.
“Why didn’t you call the whole time you were gone?” I blurted out,
/> feeling like a desperate girl with a crush (which was exactly what I was). He
didn’t immediately answer, and I couldn’t bear the void where his reassuring
words should’ve been, so I spluttered on, “I-we didn’t know when or if you
were comin’ back.”
His eyes shifted to the tray in his hands, where his fingers rearranged my
spoon so that it nestled on top of the fork. Then he picked them both up and
dumped them into his coffee cup with a sigh.
“I wanted to, but, well . . . we kind of left on a sour note. And technically,
it’s still a conflict of interest.” Pete chin-nodded at me on the bed. “I’ve seen
your powers-of-persuasion at work.” His grin gained momentum according
to my growing blush. “And you could’ve called me.”
I huffed out a laugh. “I’ve never called a boy in my life! That’s much too
forward—you mighta got the wrong idear about me. Plus, I don’t recall you
leavin’ me your number.”
“What?” He mimed getting struck in the chest. “How can you say that?
I gave it to you right before I left. It’s not my fault you didn’t write it down.”
Overjoyed Pete seemed back to his old self, I ribbed him back. “Well if
someone wouldn’t have swiped my favorite pen, I may have just done that!”
Pete hooted at that one. “And besides,” I went on, deciding to let him in on a
little secret, “I didn’t need to write it down.” I tapped the side of my head. “It’s all up here. I happen to have a Herculean memory—not even a Texas-sized
bump on the head could knock it outta me!” Then I repeated, verbatim, the
number he’d spouted off the other day.
I was laughing it up until I realized—I was the only one. What did I say? I thought back but couldn’t think of anything inflammatory that would cause
that look of alarm on his face. Unless . . . unless he was afraid I might really call him. Duh. Of course, he has a girlfriend back home. My light-hearted laugh petered out completely while I watched him put his face back together. And
his posture wasn’t right—no longer loose and easy, but all stiffened up like a
police dog on alert.
• 393 •
My forehead crinkled. “Pete, did I—?”
“Okay. Enough kidding around for now. I’m heading out to wrangle
some over-grown calves, feed some chickens, slop some pigs . . . or whatever
it is you do with them,” he drawled out, but I noticed the smile he put back