Dorothy Garlock - [Tucker Family] (8 page)

“Come on, Hannah,” she muttered.

Her plea was not going to be answered. Charlotte saw the truck racing past the nearly completed roller-skating rink and heading
toward her, a billowing cloud of dust rising behind it. Just as he had done when they first arrived in town, Owen slammed
down on the brakes and brought the vehicle to a sudden, skidding halt.

At first glance, Owen appeared irritated, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip. Streaks of grime dirtied his muscular forearms
and hands. A mess of stubble grew on
his cheeks and chin, darker than the hair that stuck out from beneath his hat. Still, through the mess, Charlotte recognized
he was handsome.

“Where’s Hannah?” He frowned through the open passenger’s window.

“I don’t know. She said she’d be here at four.”

“Don’t make any difference, I guess,” Owen huffed. “Get in.”

Looking up and down both sides of the street, Charlotte still held out hope that Hannah would somehow appear. Instead, the
only other person sweltering in the heat was an older man exiting the barber shop, tottering carefully by with the help of
his cane.

“What are you waitin’ for, an invitation or somethin’?” Owen growled impatiently.

For a long moment, Charlotte considered simply walking away and discovering a different way back to the ranch, even if that
meant she had to cover the couple of miles by foot.
I’m tired of him being so rude to me!
But then something stopped her; as hotheaded as Owen had already been, there was no telling how he would react to her so
openly defying him. Hannah laughed his tantrums away, but could she?

Reluctantly, angry both at herself for not standing up for herself more forcefully as well as at Owen’s brash, bullying tone,
Charlotte got in the truck, her exasperation instantly turning into surprise when he tromped down on the gas, whipped the
truck about in an earsplitting,
screeching turn in the middle of the street, and sent them hurtling back the way he had come.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shouted, holding on to the door frame. “Aren’t you going to wait for Hannah?”

“If she ain’t there when she said she would be, it means she’s workin’ late for that damn lawyer, and only the Lord knows
how long that’s gonna take,” Owen explained, sliding a bare forearm across the length of his brow. “I don’t know ’bout you,
but sittin’ in this truck when it’s hotter than blazes don’t sound like much of a good time to me.”

“But what if she…”

“Look here, Charlie,” he kept on, shooting her a sidelong glance and making the truck go even faster and more recklessly,
“we’ve been doin’ this for months, probably ’fore you even decided to come to this place. There ain’t no doubt that I know
what I’m doin’, so just sit back, hold on tight, and don’t do any more complainin’, you hear?”

“Don’t call me Charlie,” Charlotte warned, instantly regretting her decision not to walk back to the ranch.

“Why in the hell not? It’s your name, ain’t it?”

With every harsh word that he spoke, Charlotte’s dislike for Owen grew leaps and bounds until she could scarcely stand the
sight of him. Never in her entire life had she met a man who was so obnoxious, so willing to say things just to irritate her.
How utterly wrong she had been about him, especially after the way he had looked at her the night before.

He’s nothing but a fool!

“What in the hell kind of name do you have, anyway?” he kept on, seemingly oblivious to how upset he was making her. “The
only Charlotte I ever had the displeasure of knowin’ was an old woman with a hunched back who spent all her damn time goin’
back and forth to church, pointin’ out everything the folks around her was doin’ wrong.” Owen chuckled. “But I suppose you
have that in common with that old bird… what with your claimin’ that leavin’ Hannah behind was wrong and all!”

Without giving it any thought, Charlotte hit him.

It wasn’t much of a blow, more of a glancing punch to the top of his muscular biceps than a solid hit, but Owen reacted as
if he had just been kicked by a horse; the truth was that it almost certainly hurt her more than it did him. His green eyes
grew wide as he held the steering wheel with one hand, rubbing his new wound with the other.

“What in the hell was that for?” he bellowed.

“Because you’re the most disrespectful man I’ve ever met!”

“ ’Cause I call you Charlie?”

“It’s much more than that and you know it,” she snapped, turning to face him with eyes full of anger.

“Whatever it was, it sure isn’t enough for me to get hit!”

“Don’t be such a baby!” Charlotte snapped, refusing to let him escape punishment for what he had done. “From the first moment
I saw you this morning, you’ve done
nothing but antagonize me! If it wasn’t belittling that I came from Minnesota or making fun of my name, it was that I was
new in Sawyer and absolutely had no idea what I was talking about!”

With every angry word, Charlotte expected to feel relief for finally expressing her frustration with Owen but instead found
it growing. It didn’t help that a sly smirk spread across his whiskered face; it was obvious that he wasn’t chastised but
amused.

“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” he chuckled.

Owen’s hurtful question easily shattered the walls of Charlotte’s fury, breaking her will to fight. She turned away from him
quickly, fearful that he might see the tears that welled in her eyes. Staring out the window of the truck, she somehow managed
to answer him.

“My… my mother died the day I was born…”

Without any warning, Owen slammed down on the brakes of the truck, sending it fishtailing around the dusty dirt road. Panic-stricken,
her hands fearfully braced against the dashboard, Charlotte worried that they were going to crash, hurtling end over end or
into the ditch, but they somehow managed to hold to the road. When the truck finally came to a halt, she could barely hear
the ticking of the engine over the thundering of her own heart.

“What… what did you do that for?” she coughed through the clouds of dust raised by the truck’s sudden stop.

For a long while, the only answer she received was silence. Her first expectation was that Owen’s sudden stop meant he was
going to tear into her about something, maybe even her mother’s passing.

“I’m… I’m sorry for what I said,” Owen replied softly.

He was staring forward at some distant spot, his jaw clenched tightly and his hands rigid around the steering wheel.

Following his gaze down the road, Charlotte saw that they were within sight of the ranch, just on the other side of the bridge.
Faintly, she could hear the distinctive sounds of work, an errant whistle, the pounding of a hammer, and even the faint barking
of a dog. If she wanted to, she could just open the truck’s door and walk away…

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Owen continued, turning to face Charlotte with an intensity that forced her to look away.
“Losing a mother is hard enough without some jackass makin’ it worse. I know I was only foolin’, but that don’t mean you knew
it.”

“That’s… that’s all right,” she answered. “It was a long time ago.”

“Don’t make it any easier to bear.”

Charlotte had met other people stricken by the loss of a parent who carried their grief as if it were a physical thing. In
the right moment, you could read their loss on their face as easily as words on a page.

Now, as he sat in the truck, Owen’s grief was that apparent.

She struggled with the desire to say something, to ask him if her assumption was true, but she didn’t want to pry. If Owen
wanted to confide in her, he would when he was ready.

Regardless, his actions had demonstrated that there was much more to Owen Williams than she had been led to believe. Maybe,
just maybe, he bore a passing resemblance to the man who had intrigued her the night before, stopping at the door to look
back at her.

“Some days are worse than others,” she admitted, finding the strength to look directly at him.

“I know just what you mean,” he answered quietly.

Before Charlotte could say another word, Owen let up on the brake and gave the truck some gas. Even as the truck rolled over
the planks of the bridge, her piercing eyes never left him.

When he caught her staring at him, he grinned. “What I just said don’t mean I’m gonna stop callin’ you Charlie, though.”

“Then you should just get used to being punched in the arm.”

Owen laughed. “I suppose I can live with that.”

And so could Charlotte.

J
OHN
G
RANT DROVE
the old truck past the holding corrals where dozens of horses’ necks were bent deep into their water troughs as a relief
against the sweltering heat, headed past the open barn doors where soot-streaked men sweated over a blazing anvil, the heavy
blows of their hammers sending off showers of sparks, and eventually past the last workman’s cabin, heading away from the
ranch house. Charlotte sat beside him, wondering where he was taking her and what mysterious job he had in mind for her to
do. Why was it all so much of a secret?

While the truck bounced down the uneven road, Salt and Pepper ran alongside, furiously trying to keep up. Though Salt made
much easier progress, an expression on his face that seemed to say he was just out enjoying the afternoon, Pepper yapped with
every frenzied step of his small legs; Charlotte could not tell if his barking was out
of some hostility toward the truck or frustration that he couldn’t go any faster. Finally, he could do no more, stopping with
a sharp flurry of barking before turning back the way he had come, Salt trotting along behind.

“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” she finally asked.

“You’ll understand,” John promised, “when we’re there. “It’s easier to see than it is to explain.”

Too bad that patience was never a virtue I had very much of…
Charlotte thought, and leaned against the door, resting her arm along the open window to catch a bit of breeze.

The rushing air cooled the sweaty heat that clung tenaciously to her skin. So far, every day since her arrival in Oklahoma
had been about the same. Above, a blazing sun filled the mostly cloudless sky, relentlessly pounding down upon anyone or anything
unfortunate enough to be under its glare. While Minnesota summers were both hot and humid, the nights were often filled with
soft breezes and welcoming rain. Here, an open window offered no relief from a sweltering night.

“It doesn’t rain much, does it?” Charlotte asked as she looked out at the meager scrub. “The ground seems awfully dry.”

John chuckled loudly. “Some days it seems the ground gets more water comin’ from my spittin’ than it does from rain. If you
listen just right, you can hear the tin roofs out on the shacks cryin’ out like they was schoolchildren,
rememberin’ what it was like when raindrops was bouncin’ off ’em!”

“It’s just so unlike where I come from. Back home, we get so much water in the springtime that it can be quite dangerous,
with all of the problems of flooding.”

“Round these parts, things couldn’t be more different.” The older rancher nodded. “Most troublesome problem we got is when
a wildfire gets a spreadin’ out of control. The winds pert near whip ’em into a frenzy ’fore you know it. When one gets a
head of steam, why, there really ain’t no way of tellin’ just where it’ll all end.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“Sure is,” John agreed. “One thing ’bout a wildfire is that it’s a hell of a lot tougher to stop than it is to start.”

“Then I suppose everyone around here is extra careful.”

“If only that were the case. All it takes is a stray spark here or there, wherever it happens, and you got one goin’. Hell,
if some fool tosses a match after he’s done lightin’ up his cigarette, ’fore you know it you’re so deep in flames and chokin’
smoke that it wouldn’t be a surprise to see the devil lookin’ over your shoulder!”

John kept on talking, switching from explaining the dangers of wildfire to describing the breadth and scope of his land, its
history as his family’s property, and even to carrying on about the wildlife that inhabited it, but Charlotte found it difficult
to keep her mind on what he said no matter how hard she tried to pay attention. Instead,
she couldn’t keep her thoughts from traveling unbidden to Owen Williams and the strange way he had spoken to her the day before.

Still furious at Owen that he had decided to just leave Hannah behind in Sawyer, and had raced so recklessly down the dusty
roads that led home to the ranch house, Charlotte had been shocked when he had slammed on the truck’s brakes short of the
rickety bridge. But that paled in comparison to her surprise at the words he had then spoken. Given the harsh, hurtful things
he had said to her that day, she never would have expected him to have been so apologetic, so contrite and clearly emotional.

Owen had smiled at her when they’d finally resumed their journey to the ranch, and Charlotte thought they would continue their
conversation, but he fell silent. Once they arrived, Owen hurried off toward the closest barn without a word or glance in
her direction. Hannah appeared at dinner alone without a hint of her brother’s whereabouts. Charlotte was so confused, so
disheartened, that she’d even ignored Hale’s attempts to get her attention.

Even as she lay in bed that night, listening to the strange sounds that emanated from the ranch grounds outside her window,
Charlotte wrestled with the confusion Owen caused in her. On the one hand, he infuriated her; she couldn’t remember if she
had
ever
met a man more insufferable; never in her life had she been spoken to so rudely. But on the other hand, when she thought
of
how Owen had talked about the loss of his mother, the hurt look that had radiated in his eyes, and even the way he had smiled
affectionately toward her, she decided that whatever impressions she had formed of him were wrong or at the very least… truly
complicated.

Who was the real Owen Williams?