CHAPTER TEN

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“Why are we slowing down?” Lindsay asked. She glanced at Ska, who was once again fast asleep.

“Neha’s place is just up ahead,” he said.

“And this is a reason to slow down . . . why?”

“I am thinking,” he said.

“You’re not making any sense, Jackson,” Lindsay said. “Thinking about what?”

“About what I will to say to her when I see her,” Rainhorse replied.

“What’s there to worry about?” she asked. “I know you’ve talked to her several times already. I overheard one of the conversations.”

“I know but . . . I have not seen her.”

“Haven’t seen her in how long?”

“Since before you were born.”

Lindsay raised her eyebrows, “Oh . . . now I get it. So, what are you worried about?”

“I have changed,” he said. “I am older. I have a scar on my face.”

Lindsay chuckled, “Nonsense, dude, you’re a stud. You have no worries. You have the long, silky black hair thing going and that body of yours will make her weak in the knees on sight. The scar is faded and adds character. You’re a handsome man. If I were forty years older, I’d be all over you, myself.”

“You are eighteen,” he said. “You mean you would like me only if you were nearly sixty?”

Lindsay paused, “No, I didn’t mean that . . . I’m not good with numbers, ok? What I mean is, she’s going to love you. I promise.  It sounds like you really want to impress her?”

He shrugged, then nodded, “Yes, I do.”

“Ok, then, we’re on the run, right?” she asked, rhetorically. “I don’t have time for a proper makeover, so we have to optimize what we have.  Stop the truck and get out.”

“What?”

“Just do it, Jackson,” she repeated. “Get out of the truck. Leave on the headlights.  Walk to the front of the truck where I can get a good look at you.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “We should not risk this.”

“We’re on a backroad, remember. The police are not looking for us out here. We won’t take long. Trust me and just do as I ask, will you?” she spouted.

Rainhorse pulled over to the side of the road. He got out of the truck, looking in all directions. There was no one in sight. Lindsay eased away from Ska slowly, careful to not disturb her sleep. She got out of the truck and walked around to Rainhorse.

“Ok, to start, take off the ridiculous hat,” she began.

“I like this hat,” he said, defensively.

“Look, I know a lot of women in these parts like the whole cowboy thing,” she said, “but your hair is to die for—we have to feature it, not hide it.”

Rainhorse pulled off his hat.

“Now shake your head,” she continued, “and turn around.”

Rainhorse shook his head and turned. Lindsay began to brush his hair. It was thick and luxurious, simply beautiful, she thought. It flowed down well past his shoulders.

“Damn, your hair is sexy. Ok, I saw you throw a bag in the truck,” she continued. “Do you have a change of clothes in there?”

He nodded.

“Well, let’s see what you have,” she sighed.  Lindsay opened the driver’s side door and reached in, grabbing his bag. She unzipped it and pulled out a fresh pair of jeans.

“Here, put these on,” she said.

“I do not like those,” he replied. “They are too tight—I cannot move well.”

“Why haven’t you thrown them away?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Well, for tonight’s purposes, tight is good,” Lindsay replied, “and at least these don’t smell like you’ve been wrangling steers all day.”

“Where do I change?” he asked.

“Do you see a wardrobe room out here?” she asked. “Just peel them off. I won’t look.”

Much, she thought to herself.

Rainhorse paused and then turned around and began to pull off his jeans. Lindsay was busy fishing through the rest of his bag, which made him uncomfortable. She paused to take a peek. Rainhorse’s legs were sensational. His thighs looked as though they were chiseled out of marble. The same was true of his calves. And his butt . . . holy crap, he was hot, she thought. Maybe if she were . . . twenty years older.

Rainhorse slipped on his fresh jeans. Lindsay chuckled to herself as the big Cheyenne seemed to struggle with getting them up, buttoned and zipped. His pants looked like they might split open at any second but fitted tightly over every magnificent curve. He looked incredible in them.

“Take off your shirt,” she said.

Rainhorse unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. Lindsay had never seen him bare chested before. Like his legs, his chest was dark, hairless and sculpted. His muscular shoulders were broad, his pectorals were hard and clearly defined and his stomach sported a six pack like nothing she had ever seen before. His waist was tight and lean.

There was a side to him that made her sad, too. His chest was heavily scarred. She counted at least three reddish-brown circular scars that were caused by the bullets he had taken—taken for her.  She hadn’t seen his bare back but knew there were more bullet scars there, too. She swallowed hard. Her eyes began to moisten as she flashed back to the day he almost died protecting her. He put his own body in harm’s way, fully prepared to die for her—and he almost did.

“Before we get a new shirt on you, do you have any after shave or cologne?” she said, trying to hide the emotion she was feeling.

“Deodorant?” he asked.

“Yes, anything, to cover up . . . that smell, whatever it is.  You’re a little ripe, Jackson.”

He glared in her direction, “I have had a tough day?”

“I get it,” she said. “I just don’t want you seeing Neha for the first time smelling like a buffalo.”

“Look in my toiletry bag,” he said.

“Hold on,” she replied. “I hope you have some mouthwash, too. The Tic Tacs helped, but really, Jackson, do you eat onions and garlic every single day?”

“They are good for your heart,” he insisted.

“That may be,” Lindsay replied, fishing through his toiletry bag, “but today we are thinking about someone else’s heart.”

“Hmmm,” he grunted. “Good point.”

She pulled a stick of deodorant out of the bag, and held it up, her face looking exasperated, “Old Spice? Are you kidding me? It’s so old school. My step-father wears this every day.  Not you, too.”

He shrugged, “I like it. There’s a ship on the bottle.”

“I’m aware.”

Lindsay sighed, pulling some wet wipes out of her own purse. She tossed them to Rainhorse, “Here, use these liberally under your arms, before putting on the deodorant.”

He began to freshen up. Lindsay shook out one of his shirts, rolled her eyes and set it aside, pulling out another. She sighed again, “Where do you buy this stuff, Salvation Army?”

“No,” he said. “I shop at Goodwill.”

“Goodwill?”

“Wal-Mart, sometimes,” he added, “when there is a sale.”

She held up another shirt. She grimaced, “How old is this?”

“I have had it for five years or so,” he replied. “I have no idea how long it was worn before me.”

She nodded, pulling out the last shirt, “Why am I not surprised. Ok, then. Here, put this on.”

She handed him a simple button-down white shirt, Oxford-style. Rainhorse put it on, buttoned it and began to tuck it in.

“No,” Lindsay said, “leave the tail out. And leave all the buttons undone almost to your navel.”

“If I do that I will be cold,” he said.

“A small price,” she replied. “Roll the sleeves up to your elbows, too. I want those giant forearms on full display.”

Rainhorse did as he was told. Once his shirt was on, he stood before her. He held his arms away from his waist, “What do you think?”

She studied him closely. She walked up to him. He certainly smelled better, she thought. She smiled. He looked amazing. This poor woman had no idea what was coming her way. Lindsay fought off a little tinge of jealousy at the thought. She buttoned one button on his shirt and smoothed it out a bit.

“We have one more thing to do,” she said, retrieving a small pouch from her bag. Go sit on the front bumper of the truck.”

“What are you doing” he asked, sitting. “What is that you are holding?”

“They’re called tweezers,” she said. “I can tell you’ve never seen such a thing before.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something I’ve wanted to do since the day I met you,” she replied. She held the tweezers up and smiled.

“What?” Rainhorse asked, looking slightly intimidated.

“I’m going to pluck some of your eyebrow hair,” she said.

Rainhorse grabbed her wrist, “No. That is out of the question. My eyebrow hair does not need . . .  plucking.”

“No woman would agree with you, Jackson,” she insisted. “When it comes to eyebrows, you should have two of them, not a single long one across your whole forehead. Now sit still.”

“Wait! Wait!” he insisted.

“Why?”

“Will this . . . hurt?”

“You were shot, like nine times,” she barked. “You’ll live through this. Don’t be such a baby. Now sit still.”

He begrudgingly let go of her wrist and she began to pluck.

“Ow! Dammit, it does hurt,” he said. “Stop it. I do not need additional . . . plucking.”

“Shut up and sit still,” she said. He continued to yelp each time she plucked. He stood and rubbed the raw flesh above his nose.

“That’s enough already,” he said finally. “You do this to yourself?”

“All the time,” she said.

“That is sadistic. It is like self-abuse of the face.”

She looked at him and brushed away some loose hair, “Just a little more and we’ll be done.”

“No,” he replied, emphatically. “This whole experience is a bit . . . unsettling. Please, no more . . . plucking.”

“Ok, that’ll do, I guess,” she said, sighing.

He rubbed the sore area between his eyebrows and looked at Lindsay.

“Well, what do you think?”

Stand up.

Rainhorse stood, “Well?”

She looked at him up and down, “It’s a big improvement. I don’t suppose you have different boots?”

He shook his head no.

She bobbed her head sideways back and forth, “Hmmm. Still, pretty damn good.”

“Should I shave?” he asked.

“No, you have a light scruff, but it’s dark—very sexy. I think we’ll leave it.”

“Well then, are we ready?” he asked.

She smiled and nodded, “You’re going to be a huge hit. She’ll love you.”

Rainhorse smiled, “You think so . . . really?”

Lindsay smiled broadly and nodded, “Oh yeah . . . but don’t forget the mouthwash.”