Night Driving (8 page)

Then, she turned and raced toward the farmer, feeling both unsettled and relieved.

* * *

T
HE
FARMER
’
S
NAME
was Paul Brown and it was his field they’d spent the night in. Paul graciously volunteered to give them a ride to Fairville, the closest town. Paul went back to his house and returned with a pickup truck. Hopefully, they could find a place to shower and change their clothes in town. Boone took his knapsack from the Honda and Tara retrieved her overnight bag.

For the entire twenty-minute trip, Boone kept glancing at his watch. Tara knew he was nervous about making it to Key West, but they had plenty of time. It was only Thursday morning and his sister’s wedding wasn’t until late Saturday afternoon. Boone was a fretter. She could reassure him all day long and he would still worry, so she didn’t even bother.

She sat in the cab of the pickup, sandwiched between Paul and Boone. The truck smelled like hay, motor oil and Nebraska loam. Reaching over, she laid a hand on Boone’s good knee, just to let him know that she understood, but the second her fingers settled on his bare skin, she knew that touching him had been a mistake.

His muscles were so firm and masculine. With every pump of blood that pushed through her veins she was aware of everything about him—the sound of his breathing, the tension in his body, the smell of his scent, unique and utterly male. Her own body tightened and it felt as if—

Knock it off!

She slipped her hand off his knee, shifted her attention to Paul and started bombarding him with questions about farming, anything to get her mind off Boone.

Paul, she learned, had been born and raised in Fairville and he thought Nebraska was heaven on earth. His wife’s name was Peggy and they had three kids, all of whom were grown and living elsewhere. That saddened him quite a bit.

“Young people today.” Paul shook his head. “You’re always in such a blasted hurry. Always on your computers and whatever else is the new-fangled thing of the day. Do they ever pick up the phone and just make a call?”

“But you know,” Tara pointed out, “because of social media, people are actually more connected. My mom texts me every day.”

“It’s not the same as hearing their voices,” Paul complained. “Hell, for all I know someone stole their phones and is sending those text messages.”

“Paul’s got a point,” Boone pointed out. “A lot has been lost in our technological world.”

“And that cyber-bullying,” Paul put in. “It’s ten times worse than when I was kid. Back in those days, if you wanted to stand up to a bully, you took boxing lessons. Nowadays, those poor kids have no recourse. Some even end up taking their lives over it. Such a damn shame.”

“Look at all the advantages technology provides,” Tara said. “We can go online and pay our bills—”

“Leaving us wide open to identity theft.”

“We can send messages instantly. No need to wait for letters.”

“It’s killing the post office.” Paul readjusted his green John Deere cap on his head.

“But saving trees.”

Paul laughed and glanced over at Boone. “Your wife’s a feisty one. She could argue the hind leg off a donkey. I bet you never win a disagreement with her.”

“We’re not married,” Boone rushed to say.

Paul looked surprised. “Really? You two look so good together, I just assumed.”

“She’s just giving me a ride to Miami.”

Wow, Boone couldn’t wait to set Paul straight, as if being married to her was such a terrible notion. Tara felt as if she’d swallowed a walnut whole and it had gotten stuck in her throat.

Paul’s smile turned sly. “Well, you never know. Road trips have a way of breeding romance. That’s how I fell in love with Peggy. Senior class trip to Padre Island. Before that, we couldn’t stand each other. Her family had money and she was a cheerleader and I thought she was stuck-up. She thought I was a know-it-all, but by the time we got to the Gulf of Mexico we were madly in love. Been happily married thirty-seven years and countin’.”

“That’s such a sweet story,” Tara said.

“You never know when love is gonna sneak up on you,” Paul waxed philosophical. “Just remember, there’s a reason they say opposites attract. If you’re both the same, where’s the spark? Where’s the sizzle? Where’s the mystery?”

“But you have to have some common ground in order to stay married for so long. I bet you and Peggy have more in common than you think,” Tara argued.

“You’re right there. We both value family, tradition and the American farm.”

“See, there. Not so opposite after all.”

“You’re a pistol, Tara. Smart and pretty.” Paul leaned forward, to get a better look at Boone. “You’re dumber than you look, son, if you let this one get away. She’s a treasure.”

Tara’s cheeks heated and she cast a quick glance over at Boone to see how he was taking Paul’s advice. His face was impassive.

“She is special,” Boone said.

Hmm. Special. What did that mean? The word had so many connotations. Not all of them good.

7

Thursday, July 2, 8:02 a.m.

P
AUL
DROPPED
THEM
off at a local garage and they spoke to a mechanic, who agreed to go out to Paul’s farm and tow Tara’s Honda and the U-Haul trailer back to his shop to replace the tires.

“You folks might as well relax,” said the mechanic, who had the name
Ross
embroidered across the front pocket of his work shirt. He had a Tweety Bird tattoo on his left forearm, wore his hair slicked back in a greasy ducktail like a 1950s rebel and had a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth. “It’s gunna be a few hours. I’m here by myself until nine.”

Boone grunted, looked displeased.

Tara gave Ross a friendly smile. “Is there a place nearby where we might clean up? We spent the night in Paul Brown’s field and I really need a shower.”

Ross got a lascivious grin on his face, as if he were imagining Tara in the shower, and stared pointedly at her breasts. She pretended she didn’t see the look.

Boone saw it. He growled, clenched his fists at his sides. She could tell he was about to say something. In order to stop him from upsetting Ross—they had to stay on the mechanic’s good side if they wanted her tires repaired in a timely manner—she linked her arm through Boone’s, rested her head against his shoulder and mentally sent the message
shut up.
If they came across as a couple, Ross was much less likely to ogle her.

Boone took the hint. Or maybe he was just unnerved by the fact she’d taken his arm.

She tried not to notice how powerful his biceps were or how the feel of his muscles stoked her engines. Canting her head, she studied Ross expectantly. “Any motels within walking distance?”

“No,” Ross said. “But there’s a bed-and-breakfast at the end of the block. Tell Mrs. Hubbard I sent you over and she’ll give you a discount rate since you just need a shower and a place to crash until your car is ready.”

“Thank you.” Tara rewarded him with a cheery smile.

Ross grinned back. “I’ll have your car ready by noon.”

“I do so appreciate it. C’mon, honey,” she said to Boone, and with her arm still linked through his, guided him out the door.

“‘Honey’?” Boone said, amusement in his voice after they’d stepped into the early morning sunlight.

“A reminder. You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.”

“Sometimes you make no sense to me at all,” he admitted.

“Just putting on a show for our friend back there.” Immediately, she slipped her arm from his so she could breathe a little easier. Standing so near him, touching him so intimately, knocked her off kilter. “Thank you for not going off on him like you did on the movers.”

“I’m learning,” he said. “Although it’s a challenge reining in my inner caveman around you. Every guy wants you.”

“Not every guy.”

“Damn near. You’re too gorgeous for your own good.”

Flattered, she briefly pressed a palm to her mouth. “It’s not your place to defend me.”

“I know,” he said and sounded so regretful that Tara sent him a sharp look. “I have no claims on you.”

“Nor do you want them,” she pointed out.

“Nor do I want them,” he echoed half-heartedly.

A prickle of something she couldn’t name poked at her.
Don’t read anything into it. Even if he does like you, what does it matter? You’re going to be living at opposite ends of the country.

“There’s the B&B,” she pointed out, happy to have something else to discuss.

The Rose Garden Resort was a stately Victorian home, painted blue with yellow gingerbread trim. Numerous rosebushes bloomed in profusion along a white picket fence. A red paving-stone walkway led to the front door. Boone followed her up the path. She could feel him behind her.

This is a man who will always have your back
.

Too bad it didn’t matter. He wasn’t her man. Never would be. But she found herself hoping that one day she’d have a partner like Boone, someone who’d have her back, no matter what.

Strange. She’d never had an impulse or wish like this before. She was an independent, free spirit. She didn’t need anyone sheltering her.

Didn’t need it, no, but suddenly, she
wanted
it.

You’re worn out from packing, moving and driving. You’re dirty and hungry. That’s all it is. You’re exhausted and the idea of having someone take care of you sounds good. What you’re feeling is nothing more than that.

They stepped up onto the wide, welcoming, wraparound veranda. On the front porch was a sign that instructed them to come on in. Tara opened the screen door. The sound of Mozart and the scent of lavender greeted them. To the left was a sweeping staircase with an ornate cherry-wood banister. To the right was a small reception desk constructed from the same cherry wood.

A smiling older woman, who looked exactly like a Mrs. Hubbard, stood behind the desk. She wore a gingham apron and oversized tortoiseshell spectacles. She was dusting a shelf of knickknacks, and oddly enough, given that Mozart was on the sound system, she sang an off-key rendition of B.B. King’s “When Love Comes to Town.”

“Good morning!” she greeted them.

“Ross from the garage sent us,” Tara said. “We’re just passing through and need a place to freshen up while we’re having our car worked on.”

“So you’ll just be needing the room for a few hours?”

“That’s right.”

Mrs. Hubbard shifted her gaze to Boone. “Just one room?”

“Two,” Boone said, reaching for his wallet.

“One will do,” Tara said. “No sense paying extra when we can take turns showering.” She didn’t realize how suggestive that sounded until it was out of her mouth. “I mean, not that we were both going to shower at the same time. We don’t shower together. We...” Ack! She was just making things worse. Tara clamped her mouth shut.

Behind her, Boone let out a soft chuckle. “One room. Consecutive showering.”

Mrs. Hubbard arched a speculative eyebrow. “Do you want to include breakfast?”

“Yes,” Boone said. “Charge us for two breakfasts.”

Her eyes twinkled behind her big glasses. “Consecutive?”

“Concurrent.”

“Very good. Breakfast is in the dining room, just through that door.” The woman pointed.

“Food or shower first?” Boone asked Tara as they walked away from the reception desk.

“Food,” she said, not just because her stomach was growling, but also because she just wasn’t ready to be alone with Boone in a bedroom.

The dining room was empty, save for a man in a business suit reading
The Wall Street Journal
by the window. The food was served buffet style from chafing dishes. The smell of bacon had Tara’s mouth watering. They filled their plates and sat down across from each other at a small table. Tara spread a napkin over her lap. Boone paused to look at his watch again.

“Staring at your watch isn’t going to make time go faster,” she observed.

“Don’t want it to go faster. Want it to slow down.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty.”

“Nothing we can do about it. Might as well relax and enjoy the day.”

He canted his head at her. “How do you do it?”

“What?” She speared a forkful of fluffy scrambled eggs.

“The whole lemonade thing.”

She shrugged. “I’d rather be happy than in turmoil.”

He shook his head. “Wish I could do that.”

“It’s easy. Just look at the bright side.”

“Which is?”

“You’re still mobile.”

“Barely.”

“You’re good-looking.”

He snorted.

“What? You don’t think you’re good-looking?”

“Looks are inconsequential. They don’t last.”

“You’re a millionaire.”

“Thanks to my father.”

“You’re not balding.”

He finally cracked a smile and ran a hand through his thick head of hair. “You got a point.”

“See? There’s always a bright side.” The bright side for her was that she was having breakfast with the handsome man who would never have eaten breakfast with her back in Bozeman, but she didn’t tell Boone that, of course.

“These blueberry pancakes are really good,” he admitted.

“One way or another, bit by bit, I’ll seduce you to the sunny side of life,” Tara predicted.

Seduce.

Why had she said that word? It lay there between them like an unexploded hand grenade. Light shone in through the window, bathing Boone’s face in sunshine. Stubble ringed his angular jaw, lending him a dangerous air. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing the strong forearms thick with dark hair.

“I think you’re deeper than that.”

“What?”

“I think you choose to be happy because you’re scared what will happen if you let yourself experience negative feelings.”

Alarm had her smiling doubly hard. How had he guessed that about her?

“You pump up the energy around you by laughing and joking and having a good time, but it’s just a cover.”

“It’s not,” she said, concerned that he’d seen through her most basic insecurity about herself and annoyed by the little flare of panic that ignited in her at his assessment. He’d cut close to the bone.

“You’re afraid of painful feelings.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

He shook his head. “No. Pain is a part of life. You can’t truly appreciate joy until you’ve suffered.”

“Well then, you must be on the verge of becoming Mr. Freaking Sunshine because you’ve suffered a hell of a lot.”

His smile was rueful. “I’ve made you mad.”

“Me?” She screwed up her face in an expression of denial, shook her head, shrugged.

“See? You don’t even want to feel that negative emotion.”

“You’re pushing your luck, Boone. I’m just a happy person.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, what was the first thing you did when you heard about your mother’s breast cancer diagnosis?”

Tara squashed a blueberry with the back of her fork. “I went to play softball.”

“I rest my case.”

“What? It wasn’t like I could change the diagnosis. What was I supposed to do? Wring my hands? Gnash my teeth? Shake my fist at the sky and curse God?”

“Most people would have done some version of that, but you go play softball.”

A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Does that make me a terrible daughter?”

“No, it makes you the kind of person who masks her pain by trying to lift her mood.”

“What did you do?” she asked. “When you found out your dad had died?”

“I got my pistol, went to the junkyard my friend owned and shot the hell out of an old rusted-out car.”

“Oh, yes, that’s so much healthier than playing softball.”

“I’m not saying the way you handle negative emotions is wrong, simply pointing it out because I’m not sure you’re aware of it.”

“Thanks, now I know. I enjoy having my flaws brought to my attention.”

He reached across the table, touched her hand. “You need to know that it’s okay to feel bad sometimes.”

“You should know. You’ve made feeling bad a true art form.”

He raised his palms. “You’re right. I’m out of line. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

But he wasn’t out of line. He’d hit the nail on the head, and Tara knew it. The character trait that had caused her the most trouble was the inability to take life seriously.

Boone was looking at her with such kind compassion that her gut wrenched. Here she’d been trying so hard to get him to cheer up when he’d actually seen benefit in his low mood. It was a foreign concept to her.

Opposites attract.

Tara quickly pushed back her plate. “I’m ready for a shower.”

A wry smile lifted one corner of Boone’s mouth.

Hmm, that sounded suggestive, too. “Um, could I have the room key?”

He pulled the room key Mrs. Hubbard had given him from his shirt pocket, but made no move to come with her, thank heavens. Her chest felt oddly tight as she scurried from the dining room, up the creaky stairs and located room 201. Not that it was a challenge. There were only three bedrooms on the second floor.

She rushed in, dropping her overnight bag on the floor in her haste, barely even noticing that the room was decorated in rose floral wallpaper. She went straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. That’s when she caught sight of her reflection in the oval mirror over the white porcelain sink.

Holy tornado. She looked like she’d been through a Kansas twister and Tara knew firsthand what that was like.

Her hair was a mess. No,
mess
was too kind. It was a tangled rat’s nest. The mascara she hadn’t removed last night before falling into the tent had smeared, making her look like Cleopatra on a drinking binge. Lovely.

After a sizzling-hot shower, she felt infinitely better and came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her wet hair done up in a French braid.

Boone lay stretched out across the lone queen-sized bed, his hot gaze eating her up.

She startled and clutched the towel tighter around her. “What are you doing here?”

“You were the one who wanted one room. Consecutive showers, remember? I hope you left some hot water for me.” He waved at the steam rolling out the bathroom door behind her.

“You were supposed to stay in the dining room until I finished.”

“You never explained the rules,” he said, his dark eyes searing her to the spot.

“How’d you get in?”

“You didn’t lock the door behind you,” he said, and then added, “I locked it.”

The door was locked? They were locked in here together? Tara gulped, felt her stomach twitch. This was one of the negative emotions he’d been talking about.

Fear.

Not of him, but of herself and the impulse sprinting through her.

“Anyone could have followed you in here,” he said in a calm, measured, but no-nonsense tone.

“So, that’s it,” she said. “You’re trying to teach me a lesson. People can’t be trusted. Duly noted. Now please get out while I get dressed.”

“You’re throwing me out of the room I paid for?” he drawled.

“Only until I get dressed.” She was very self-conscious and acutely aware of how little there was between them. Her towel. His jeans.