Chapter 32

Tori tossed her dusty sweatshirt on the laundry pile in the corner of the bedroom and pulled on a clean one, simultaneously exhausted and wired. For two weeks, her dreams had been a jumble of Willy and Delon, their faces fading in and out, their bodies morphing, one into the other, as her hands moved over them. She woke every morning with guilt curdling in her gut, aching, body and soul. It had to end. She had to move forward. Beginning tonight.

She splashed water on her face, ran a comb through her hair, then pulled open the vanity drawer and considered the unopened box of condoms inside. She’d bought them the day after he’d kissed her, before the press frenzy got so bad she couldn’t set foot in a drugstore without someone taking a photo and plastering it all over the Internet. Even then, she’d known it was inevitable. The delay she’d insisted on was only so her mind could catch up with her body. Adjust to the idea of being with a man who wasn’t Willy. She wasn’t sure if she was there yet, but why take chances? She tore open the box and stuffed a condom in the pocket of her jeans. Then a second, because yeah, she did remember, and one might not cut it.

When she walked into the living room, Delon sidled away from the entertainment center, pretending he hadn’t been checking out the pictures of her with Willy. Delon looked out of place in her faded living room, buffed and glossy as a life-sized cutout of one of his sponsor ads. When she breathed deep, she could smell whatever spicy stuff he’d slapped on after his shower. She wanted to wrap herself around him. Bury her face in the curve of his neck and sink her teeth in.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, pulling black leather snug across shoulders that were broader now, the strength more than muscle. Those shoulders carried the weight of maturity. Of fatherhood. Her fingers itched to peel away the layers, get down to that warm, dark skin. Find out if it still tasted sweet and salty and gave her system the same kick as a triple-shot latte.

Something of what she was thinking must have shown in her face because his gaze shifted to the couch, clung there for a moment, then slid slowly back to her. “Ready to go?”

She considered the many interpretations of that question. Was she ready to cross this line? Presentable enough for whatever he had in mind? Did she want to leave the house? Or just say damn the consequences and throw him down on the couch?

Her common sense gave her hormones a slap upside the head. She only wished it was that simple. This final step away from Willy was like teetering on the edge of the dock while everybody tried to tell you the water was fine, but you were pretty sure they were full of shit, and finally you just had to jump in and hold your breath through those first shocking moments. Except if Delon made her shiver, it wouldn’t be from cold.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, and broke for the door before she decided to close her eyes and yell Banzai! instead.

* * *

A cowbell jangled as Delon pushed the door of The Smoke Shack open, then held it for her to go in ahead of him. A pair of boys in their late teens slouched at one of the dinky tables along the wall, dressed in the standard uniform of Carhartt coats, boots, and ball caps. A mountain of stained, crumpled napkins filled the tray between them. Their gazes skimmed past her without much interest until they spotted Delon. Then they bounced back to her, baffled, as if they’d never seen Delon with a girl before. At least, not a girl who wasn’t Violet.

The leaner, darker of the two eyed her with open, avid curiosity. “Hey, Delon.”

A pained expression flickered across Delon’s face. “Hank. Thought you were in San Antonio.”

“Dad said if I wasn’t getting paid to fight bulls, I could just as soon stay home and make myself useful.” Hank made a disgusted noise, then grinned. “I’m flyin’ back with Joe and Wyatt to work the Extreme Bulls event this weekend, assumin’ we can get Joe on the plane, since he—”

“Yeah, I know,” Delon cut in, before Hank could pry open the lid of that little box of TNT.

Hank scowled, clearly annoyed that he hadn’t been the one to break the news. Then he gave Delon a sly smile, his gaze slithering to Tori. “Guess you’ve been busy, too.”

“Don’t be a dipshit,” Delon said, and turned his back to look at the menu.

Another teenager waited behind the counter, eyes bright as a sparrow. “What y’all want, Delon? Ma’s got a Valentine’s special, the works for two. Like anybody’s gonna bring a date here.” He wrinkled his nose, then registered the significance of Tori’s presence with a visible double take and stammered, “I mean, this ain’t so bad, but most people are into all the romantic shit, so they go, you know, other places—”

“We’ll take the special,” Delon interrupted. “With sweet tea for me.”

“Same here,” Tori said.

“Stayin’ or goin’?”

“Going,” Delon said.

“It’ll be up in a couple of minutes,” the kid said, passing over their drinks.

“Thanks, Korby.” Delon took one, passed the other to Tori, and they stood awkwardly, not sure where to put themselves to wait. Another of those little rhythms they’d never established. “Sit?”

“Sure.”

They settled in at the only other table. Tori glanced over and caught Hank checking her out, a glimmer of almost-recognition in his eyes. She gathered up every crystal of ice in her soul and put it in her eyes, then flicked it at him like a dagger, tossing in a contemptuous lift of her eyebrows for good measure. A real Claire number. Who the hell are you to stare at me? Hank blinked, then his face reddened and he dropped his chin, suddenly fascinated by the screen of his smartphone.

Tori let the ice melt away as her gaze drifted over the faded walls, the worn linoleum floor, and the hand-written menu on the chalkboard over the counter. “Places like this are always the best.”

Delon missed a beat, staring at her with a wary expression. “The food is pretty decent.”

“Smells amazing.” She inhaled, drawing the aroma of smoke and spices and meat clear down into her pores. “I’m starving.”

“Me, too.”

Well. That exhausted her supply of small talk. The boys were sucking up every word, so no discussing the state of Delon’s knee. Anything concerning the senator was off limits. The weather hadn’t even been worth bitching about—a stretch of bland, fifty-degree days with no change in sight. The boys hunched over their phones, risking occasional furtive glances across the room while Tori and Delon pretended fascination with the ice cubes in their tea. Finally, Korby plunked a brown bag onto the counter. Tori and Delon bolted from their chairs. While Delon paid the tab, Tori snatched the bag and her drink. Excited voices broke out before the door slapped shut behind them.

Delon slammed his car door and hissed out a curse. “Sorry. Should’ve done the drive-through.”

“No big deal.” If the aromas wafting from the warm bag in her lap were any indication, it was worth it.

He drove a sturdy, economical four-door much like hers, except his had multicolored crumbs in the creases of the seats, unidentified sludge hardened in the cup holders, and a scatter of chocolate bar wrappers on the floor. Delon turned on the stereo, his usual hard rock drowning out the hum of nerves that filled the car. Tori crimped and uncrimped the edge of the takeout bag as he headed in a familiar direction.

“We’re going to your place?” she asked.

“Only for a minute. I need to pick something up.”

She didn’t ask for details because what if he’d decided he’d better grab some condoms, too? Awkward.

He parked in his usual spot and got out, then totally baffled Tori by walking around to her side and opening the door. “Bring the food.”

“I thought you were just…”

Her voice trailed off as he pulled a second set of keys out of his pocket and jingled the Freightliner key fob in front of her like a carrot. “Wanna go for a drive?”

She gazed at the sleek black truck, whispering its siren call into the still night air, and laughed in surprise and delight. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Tori ran her hands up and down the armrests, practically bouncing. “These seats are awesome. But it’s so quiet. I expected it to sound…tougher.”

Delon grinned at her unapologetic giddiness. “It’s a truck, not a Harley. Quiet is good when you’re living in your truck.”

“I suppose so.” She twisted around to examine the sleeper. “You can walk around in here like a motor home.”

“They’re not all this fancy. This is the first brand-new, top of the line truck we’ve ever bought.”

She arched her brows. “Business is good, then?”

He hesitated a fraction too long. “Getting better all the time.”

“And that’s a problem because…”

“Not a problem. Just…” He shrugged, then ran a hand across the top of the steering wheel. “I haven’t been around enough the last few years to take any credit.”

“Ah. That does take some of the fun out of it.”

Damn her, seeing straight through him. Again. “Here, I’ll show you how the onboard navigation system works.”

She let him change the subject, content to fiddle with the touch screen, testing the maps, driving directions, and the forward camera system. Yes, he was showing off, but it was worth it to see her awed reaction. And wasn’t that just a kick in the ass. All the times he’d told himself a Patterson couldn’t possibly be interested in a glorified truck driver and here she was, happy as a kid at a carnival.

He turned south at Dumas to roll past arrays of blinking red lights atop ghost-white windmills and between jagged, shadowy arroyos. At the highest point between Dumas and Amarillo he steered into a pullout, put the truck in park, and turned off the lights. Ahead and to the north, small towns sparkled like star clusters in a sea of black, while the lights of Amarillo blared to the south. They ate barbecue, listened to the radio, and talked about music and trucks and whether the Rangers would have a decent closer out of the bullpen this year.

She licked her fingers and gave a deeply satisfied sigh. “Damn, I missed this. Doesn’t matter how hard they try, barbecue never tastes the same anywhere else.”

“Is that all you missed?” he asked, then wanted to swallow his tongue because it sounded like he was fishing. “I mean, you mostly grew up here. Didn’t you ever get homesick?”

She took a sip of her sweet tea, then twiddled with the straw, looking thoughtful. Finally, she said, “Pecans. There are big ol’ trees at the ranch, and when the nuts dropped, the cook would send me out to gather them. She made the most awesome pralines and pie. Plus the nuts were fresher or something.”

Delon understood. Food harvested with your own hands always tasted best. “Miz Iris used to pay us a dollar a bucket to pick apples off her trees and Steve would make hand-cranked ice cream to go with whatever she baked with them.”

“Mmmm.” Tori tilted her head back against the seat, her expression dreamy. “Now I want pie and ice cream—but only if it’s handpicked and homemade, so I guess I’ll have to settle for a cookie.”

Delon laughed at her tragic sigh. Their gazes caught as she handed him his cookie and he felt the click of a new kind of connection. He’d spent so much time focusing on all the ways they were different and yet, at the heart of it, the memories they cherished were very much the same. Unlike him, though, the good times hadn’t been enough to keep her in the Panhandle.

He brushed the cookie crumbs off his jacket and fired up the truck, heading in the direction of Earnest. A few miles out of town, he turned off the local highway onto a narrow gravel road and stopped.

“Your turn.”

Tori’s eyes went wide. “I’m not licensed to drive a truck.”

“This is a private road. The ranch belongs to friends.” He slid out of the driver’s seat and stood. “So if you want to give it a try…”

“Bet yer ass.” She popped up and angled past him in a flash, wiggling her butt into the driver’s seat and placing both hands on the wheel. “All right, master. School me.”

He had an intense pang of…envy? She was so gung-ho. Unguarded. He’d never been able to drop all his defenses that way and just let go. Except with her. As long as he’d kept her separate from the rest of his life, for those few months, those amazing hours, he could be different. Daring. Shameless. Exciting. In other words, not himself. But if the fake Delon was the man she wanted, they were both out of luck.

They bumped down a two-mile stretch and back again, no problem. She’d driven enough manual transmissions to easily handle the truck’s lower gears. The washboards and potholes in the gravel road didn’t allow for anything above third, which left Delon free to watch her face, as intent in the glow of the dashlights as if she was bringing the space shuttle in for a landing. When they had completed the round trip, she slowed to a stop and cast a wistful look at the highway. “I bet it’s amazing out on the interstate, sitting way up here, looking down at the little people.”

“I dunno. I’m still debating whether sunroofs are the work of angels or the devil. The things I’ve seen…” He gave a mock shudder.

She laughed. Then she traced a finger all the way around the steering wheel. “I wouldn’t mind running away for a few days. Just drive and drive…”

“Is that what you’ve decided to be?” he teased. “A tough truckin’ mama?”

“Tempting, but since I don’t want to actually be the death of my own mother…” She caressed the steering wheel with both hands and gazed out the windshield, her chin lifting as if she’d come to a conclusion. “This is how I want to be, though. The way I feel sitting here. Bold. Powerful.”

“Fearless.”

“Everyone is scared. The people we call fearless are just the ones who don’t let it stop them.” Her eyes sparked with humor. “Or psychopaths incapable of emotion.” She gave the steering wheel another pat. “I guess the word I’m looking for is unstoppable.”

He opened his mouth to tell her that some days trucking was all about sitting in one place—road construction, traffic, loading docks, mandatory rest breaks—but he didn’t want to extinguish any part of that fire in her eyes. Instead, he yearned to hit the highway with her. See it from her perspective—always searching for openings, seeing only detours where he saw roadblocks. Besides…he grinned, imagining how Tori would react when Gil tried to tell her where she should stop to pee. That alone would be worth the price of admission.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Make another U-turn, then take that road to the right.”

Road was a generous description. The ungraded track angled off to skirt the edge of a bluff above the Canadian River, worn by the tires of generations of local teenagers who’d used the place they called The Notch as their Lovers’ Lane and party spot. Like most everything else, the lawyers had ruined it for the current generation, the threat of liability forcing the landowners to put out the word that they’d prosecute anyone they caught trespassing there. Which meant even on Valentine’s night, it was deserted.

Tori pulled up where Delon indicated, put the truck in neutral, and set the parking brake. Before them, the river breaks were a shadowy, silver-edged maze in the moonlight.

Tori gave an appreciative sigh. “Nice.”

“Come on. We’ll take a better look.”

Before climbing down he doused the headlights, plugged in his MP3 player, and rolled down the windows. When he stepped outside, the effect was exactly as he’d hoped. The lights along the front bumper, the top of the cab, and the running boards created a pool of amber. The first song began to play, soft, romantic, with just the right touch of Texas twang. A guy couldn’t ask for a better wingman than George Strait, with Stoney Larue and Randy Rogers for backup.

Tori turned from where she’d gone to stand at the edge of the bluff, staring out over the breaks. Her hair spilled loose around her face and she looked younger, softer, more like the girl than the woman. She didn’t speak, only cocked her head in question.

“I never took you dancing. And now, with all the publicity…this’ll have to do.” He held out his hand. “Dance with me?”

Her smile bloomed, slow and full. “Again…I thought you’d never ask.”

She slid into his arms, her body melting against his as they swayed together on their own private dance floor, lit by the moon, the stars, and the glow of the truck lights.