Kitabı oxu: «Pick Me Up»
Pick Me Up
Samantha Hunter
“Silent gratitude isn’t much use to anyone.”
—Gertrude Stein
For this book, and for all the books past and
future, thank you!
Birgit Davis-Todd, Mike Fratto, Jeannie Watt,
Sarah Mayberry, Brenda Chin, Emily Martin,
Blake Morrow, Laura Barth, Julie Chivers,
Sherie Possessorski, Amy Chen,
Peter Cronsberry, Maureen Stead,
Page Traynor, Dee Tonorio, Larissa Tchoumak,
and Elizabeth Goncalves
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
1
“ARE YOU SURE you know what you’re doing?”
Lauren Baker watched the road before her with no small bit of fear. She was just south of Tucson, and to say the route curling down into the desert canyon was steep was an understatement. Raised in Connecticut, she’d never in her life encountered such death-trap roads as she was discovering in Arizona. It wasn’t exactly the time, and definitely not the place, to be distracted by the question her best friend, Becky Saunders, had asked her this morning when they’d spoken on the phone.
Was she sure? Hell, no. That was the whole point.
She was a week and a half into her no schedule, no destination, no obligations trip around the country. She had a map, two credit cards, her cell phone and what clothes and extras fit into the trunk of her Toyota Corolla. Everything else—not that there was a whole heck of a lot—she’d left with Becky for her to sell.
Lauren inched around another excruciatingly sharp curve, ignoring the drop of several hundred feet to her right, fighting the impulse to shut her eyes. Roads like this would challenge any driver, but since acrophobia topped her long list of fears, not freaking out was her main challenge at the moment.
“C’mon Lauren…buck up!” she told herself. “This is all part of your new, no-wimping-out life, remember?”
An only child of parents who’d wanted a large family but didn’t end up having one, she’d grown up center stage. ‘Overprotected’ would be a mild description of her childhood. Not that it had been bad or anything, but it had led her down a certain path and now she was trying to carve a new one for herself.
Her mom and dad didn’t shower her with love, they’d drowned her in it. Knowing so much of their happiness revolved around her, she’d grown up not wanting to do anything that would disappoint them.
They’d supported her decision to divorce Wes. However, it hadn’t all been smooth sailing. They’d been very upset when she’d refused their offer to come back home after the split. They hadn’t understood how she needed to strike out on her own, after escaping Wes’s smothering possessiveness.
She’d never had an argument with her parents—not one—because she’d never rebelled. At twenty-nine, it was long past due, though it still made her sad to have hurt them at all. She wanted to be her own woman, but in their eyes, she’d be their little girl forever. Thank God the same could not be said about being Wes’s wife.
One of her father’s ace employees, Wes had been Lauren’s first lover, her husband and her first big mistake. She intended to learn from it.
Wes had her parents’ stamp of approval, which she realized now was in part because they had figured marrying Wes would keep her close. Although they’d assumed he’d continue to work for Lauren’s father, they’d been very supportive when Wes had decided to break away and start his own business with Lauren. Equal partners, supposedly.
Instead, it had been the beginning of her personal nightmare. Wes had never been physically abusive. He hadn’t even been verbally abusive in the technical sense—unless you counted him asking her to account for every minute of her day and his endless questions about her activities, friends and whereabouts. Eventually, explaining everything to him had become impossible, and she’d just stopped going out, which had been a big mistake.
He’d won.
Together they had operated a successful, and profitable, consulting business. Lauren’s specialty was as an efficiency expert—she would go into businesses and streamline their production methods and anything else that was causing losses within a company. As a sideline, she’d also started consulting on the home front—helping people with time management and organizing their space.
Wes had put the kibosh on that just as she was building a substantial client list of her own. When she’d received flowers from a man she’d helped, an innocent thank you, Wes had made her life miserable until she had given up her home consulting.
Little by little, he’d stopped scheduling her for outside appointments, hiring a new employee to take over her accounts, relegating her to the home office. In an attempt to save her marriage, she’d gone along. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
By the time she’d recognized she had a serious problem, she had no friends, rarely saw her parents and almost never left the house. Deciding to take back some control, she’d called an old friend to go shopping. When Wes arrived home and discovered she wasn’t there, he’d flipped out. He forbade her to ever leave the house without his knowledge again. That week she’d moved in with Becky, and the next month served Wes with divorce papers. And so here she was, driving down these winding desert roads.
Tears stung her eyes as she tried to focus on the road. Her parents would be happy once she figured out her life, even if they remained baffled in the meanwhile.
Taking a deep breath, she applied slightly more pressure to the accelerator and worked her way more smoothly around the next curve. Smiling, she let out a whoop of success.
No more letting anyone run her life but her, no more living in fear of what lay around the next corner. No more playing it safe. Playing it safe had only led her down the wrong roads, living her life for everyone except herself. There was so much she had to experience, and now was the time to do it.
According to the map, there was a town called Soul Springs—nice name—at the bottom of this canyon. Maybe she’d stay awhile, who knows? No plans, no limits. That was her motto.
She sang along with the music blaring from her radio, chasing away the crippling ghosts of the past. The clear blue desert sky spread out before her. Dizzying heights aside this was some of the most spectacular scenery she’d ever laid eyes on.
“Whoa!” she yelled, sucking in a breath and hitting the brake, panic overcoming her when a motorcycle zoomed out from behind her, feeling as if it were going to rip off her hubcaps it skimmed so close. The loud rattle of the bike’s powerful engine deafened her momentarily, adding to the shock of its sudden appearance. In a flat second, the speeding cyclist was gone, literally leaving her in his dust.
Pulling to the side on a small turnout, she put the car in Park and took several deep breaths, stilling her shaking hands and pounding pulse.
“Jerk!” she spat belatedly along with a number of other choice words at the daredevil who’d almost scared her to death. Who drove these roads like that? It was irresponsible, dangerous and just plain stupid.
“Might as well stretch my legs and let that moron get as far ahead as possible,” she muttered. Getting out, she walked over to the passenger side, a safe distance from the edge, trying to enjoy the view.
Frowning at her own apprehension, she took a step forward. There was nothing to be afraid of—the guardrail was there, and it wasn’t like someone was going to push her over the side. It was a stunning landscape—she should take a look.
No wimps allowed.
One more step forward, then another.
Adrenaline pushed through her, the crazy motorcyclist forgotten as she stared out over the valleys and mountains, awestruck. The dry wind was hot on her face, but the heat relaxed her, permeating her skin, claiming her.
“Oh my God,” she breathed the words out, feeling…overcome. It was just so beautiful. Opening her arms to the vast space, she laughed, and then laughed again at her echo.
“You’ve come a long way, baby,” she joked to herself, feeling cocky and brave. She risked a look down past the rail and stepped back quickly.
“Okay, well, baby steps,” she reassured herself, shuffling back to the solid safety of the car, but still smiling.
Back behind the wheel, she was looking forward to what she’d find at the bottom of the canyon more than ever.
Switching the radio channel as she took the next curve, she looked up, surprised to see that daredevil motorcyclist again. She thought he’d be long gone by now, but no, there he was.
The bike was parked, its slanted posture mimicking the way the man who rode it leaned against the guardrail as if there weren’t a sheer drop on the other side. More amazing, he was standing there in a tux, the collar ripped back, his black tie hanging crookedly.
She drove up, got a closer look—square jaw, dusty, sun-bleached sandy hair—she wasn’t sure what to make of him. Part GQ model, part Road Warrior. Maybe she’d give him a piece of her mind for passing her so hazardously, but something about his expression and his posture suggested that maybe she’d be better off driving by. A lifetime of training in good manners wouldn’t allow it though; he could be in need of help.
He was tall. The wind had apparently whipped the crap out of what was once a lovely boutonniere. When he fixed intense green eyes on her, she met his stare. There was something wild in that look, a feral gleam.
She rolled down the window. “Is everything okay?”
“Broke down.” Nice voice, not as smooth as she would have expected, given the tux. The voice was definitely Road Warrior, low and dry.
“Lucky you’re alive at all,” she said under her breath. He might have heard, but he didn’t say anything. She tried again.
“On your way somewhere?”
“Not really.”
“Do you have someone coming to get you? Triple A?”
“Nope.”
Lauren weighed what to do. He wasn’t being very cooperative.
“Do you want a ride?” The words were past her lips before she could reconsider them.
He appeared to consider, too, pausing, and answered her with one short, curt nod. As he reached for the door handle, she wondered what the heck she was doing. He settled into her small front seat, looked at her and smiled ever so slightly, wiping out every coherent thought she’d ever had.
She never picked up hitchhikers—what rational woman did? But he wasn’t exactly hitching, was he? In her experience, most hitchhikers weren’t hanging around in designer tuxes, either.
“Where to?”
He paused again, staring out the window, and shrugged. “Surprise me.”
BRETT WALLACE was sure he was going to lose his freakin’ mind if the woman didn’t hit the gas—my God, his eighty-year-old grandmother drove faster. He should have known when he saw the Connecticut license plates. At this rate, they’d never make the bottom of the canyon by dark, and then what? There weren’t any streetlights up here, and she was a city girl, obviously. She could barely handle the roads in broad daylight. In the dark, she’d just pull over and quit. He snorted to himself. Tourists.
He passed a few moments by studying her profile. Not that he couldn’t think of a few things they might do in the dark—after all, nothing holding him back now, was there?
She was pretty, he realized as he took the time to notice. Her short brown hair had a slight curl and curved slightly at the chin, framing a face that would be considered plain by some, but which he found attractive. She had that kind of creamy skin that looked like it might melt if you touched it, and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose that added charm. He’d always liked freckles. Her skin was so light—unprepared for the hot temperatures and harsh sun of the Sonora Desert.
“How about I drive for a bit?”
She spared one second to look over at him before gluing her eyes back on the road. To his astonishment, she barked an unladylike laugh.
“Right—the way you were driving that bike? No thank you. I’d like to reach the bottom of this road alive.”
“If we ever reach it at all,” he muttered, blowing out a breath, and admitting only to himself that he had been pushing it a bit back on the bike. Maybe more than a little. But by God he’d been pissed and had a perfect right to be, too.
When a guy was racing away from the church where he was supposed to have gotten married just about an hour ago, a little speed was justifiable. He’d had the good luck—and he was counting it as good, all things considered—to discover his best man, Howie, in the bride’s chambers shortly before the ceremony was to begin. That was unusual, but might not have been a problem except that she’d had her dress up around her waist, and Howie hadn’t been helping her with the buttons. With a full congregation waiting, no less.
Howie had done him a favor, he supposed, since he’d been on his way to talk to Marsha, intending to call it off. At least he was going to do her the service of breaking it off, of being honest, though granted, he’d waited until the last minute, as well. Right now he wasn’t sure what to think about it, the whole sorry mess.
“My apologies about that. I’ve been driving these roads for most of my life, and I think I might be able to return a favor and save you a nervous breakdown if you allow me to get us to the bottom before dark.”
At the mention of night, her eyes went wide, and after a long pause, she shook her head. “I can handle it.”
“Okay then.” He sat back, trying to relax, but just getting annoyed. Headstrong women were going to be the death of him.
“Thank you,” she answered primly, and he raised his eyebrows. She was wound way too tight.
“Where are you headed?”
“Nowhere in particular,” she murmured, and he could tell by the sudden pause that she’d thought better of it a moment too late. Smart girl, she’d just more or less told a stranger she was on the road with no destination, no one expecting her.
“We all need to get away sometimes,” he offered by way of convincing her he wasn’t a serial killer. He held out his hand. “Brett Wallace. I own a ranching operation back about ten miles. I’m very reputable, depending on who you ask.”
He grinned and saw her shoulders ease. “Lauren Baker.”
She dared to take one hand off the wheel and gripped his lightly; she had buttery soft hands, her white skin contrasting against his own darker tone. Her touch reverberated somewhere down low in his belly, where he felt a stirring. Shaking it off, he pursued the small talk. It kept him from thinking about how he’d ended up here, anyway.
“Where’d you start from?”
“Hartford, Connecticut.”
He whistled. “That’s about as East Coast as you can get, huh? They don’t have roads like this back there. No wonder you’re so tense. You know, it’s just a matter of getting into the rhythm of the drive.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” she said sardonically, but he noticed she sped up a little and took the next curve more smoothly.
“So what about you? You live here, you own a ranch. Nice tux,” she mentioned meaningfully, asking the question without really asking it.
“Hate these damned monkey suits,” he growled, yanking at the collar, even though it was loose. “On my way back from a formal event, and blew something on the bike.”
“From the rose on your lapel, I’d guess a wedding. Best man?”
“Apparently not,” he muttered in a tone of voice he hoped barred any further questions. Images from the morning flashed in front of his eyes again. How was he supposed to admit that he’d run away from his own wedding, left the bride stranded? Not that she didn’t deserve it. Still, it wasn’t his way of dealing with things, to cut and run.
Brett couldn’t say he gave a damn what people thought most of the time. This time was different. He thought at first it was because he was so angry he might have done something he’d later regret, like busting his longtime friend’s skull. But as he’d ripped down the highway on his bike, he’d almost felt free for the first time in months.
Relieved. And guilty. Maybe if he’d stepped up sooner and told Marsha he wasn’t sure that they should be getting married, none of this would have happened, but it hadn’t seemed so clear at the time. He’d never been in love with Marsha, no more than she’d been in love with him. Their decision to get married was more of an automatic step, the next logical thing to do after they’d been seeing each other on and off for several years. When Marsha had suggested they make it permanent, she’d taken his silence as a “go,” and before he’d known it, he was picking tuxes.
It hadn’t seemed like a half-bad idea, when he thought about it. He was thirty-five, and the ranch had been his life. He hadn’t dated too much since he left college at twenty-two, except for Marsha and a few stray lovers. Marriage had seemed like the thing to do; he and Marsha made as much sense as anything.
But love? No. Neither one of them expected that.
He’d known her since high school, a local girl from a ranch down the line, bigger than his, and more profitable, sure. Marsha liked being involved with things, and Brett had been left with a ranch to run and a thirteen-year-old brother to raise when he was just twenty-three, himself, so having Marsha around had worked out. She knew about ranch life; they had a decent relationship, good in the sack—or so he’d thought—and she didn’t ask too much from him. So he’d let it ride when she wanted to get married.
Until he’d been driving to the church and it hit him he couldn’t go through with it—and then he’d found them, and he hadn’t known what to think. To pretend to be outraged would have been a lie, but deep down, he was more embarrassed than anything. He’d obviously been less of a man than Marsha needed, as well.
In all the times they’d been together, he’d never seen the raw passion on her face that he’d witnessed her sharing that morning with Howie. That truth stung deep, sticking into a particularly tender area of his male ego that he’d never questioned before. Obviously he hadn’t been paying enough attention, in a lot of ways. Romance had never been big on his agenda, but still, a man liked to think he could satisfy a woman, and Marsha clearly hadn’t been satisfied. Not by him, anyway.
Maybe when she’d realized he was gone, she’d been relieved, too.
He returned his gaze to Lauren; she didn’t seem to mind the lack of conversation. He inhaled the sweet smell of her soap or shampoo, or some damned flowery thing that was attracting him like a bee to a blossom. It was going to be a long ride to Soul Springs, where he assumed his ride was heading. He took another stab at conversation.
“You have any plans once you get where you’re going?”
“Not really. Find a place to live, find a job, start fresh.”
“Fresh from what?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Fair enough.”
She bit her lip and it made him pay more attention to her mouth than he probably should. Turning, he looked out his window. Just because he’d been cuckolded didn’t mean he should go jump the first woman he came across.
“I’m divorced,” she blurted, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“You don’t look old enough to be married, let alone divorced.”
“Thanks, but I’m more than old enough to have made my share of mistakes.”
“Must’ve been a bad situation that would drive a woman to the other side of a continent.”
“Bad enough.”
There was still pain in her voice, and he was curious about why. As he hadn’t shared any of his, he didn’t feel right asking for hers. Pointing down to the town that looked like a scattering of Monopoly houses from this height, he changed the subject.
“There’s Soul Springs. If you can drop me off I can call for a ride and get someone to pick up the bike.”
“It’s bigger than I thought.”
“Part retirement community, part resort. It’s a fairly new community, actually, only about thirty years old.”
“A senior community? In the desert?”
“Old people love it out here. The dry, hot air is good for what ails them.”
“I guess that makes sense. It’s beautiful here, too.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life, never tire of it. Can’t imagine why anyone would want to be anywhere else.”
She pulled down a main street, and he pointed her to a nice-looking motel that he knew was clean and safe by reputation. They got out, and he turned to look at the horizon.
“Might be too late to get help now. I guess I’ll wait until tomorrow. Thanks for the ride.”
“You’re welcome. I hope your bike’s okay up there.”
“It’ll be fine. It’s far enough off the road, and if it gets stolen, well, it’s insured. I never cared for it much—touchy beast, seems like something breaks every time I take it out.” He shrugged, knowing he should be ending this conversation, but was dragging it out. Maybe the more he talked, the less he had to think about what was waiting for him back at the Slanted-W, the name of their family ranch.
She shoved her hands in the pockets of well-worn jeans that fit very snugly, he noticed when she got out of the car, and smiled as she looked out past the cactus gardens that surrounded the motel.
“Well then, bye. I guess I’ll go check in.”
As she turned and walked to the door, he couldn’t quite ignore the way her nicely shaped backside fit into those jeans, and found himself calling out again.
“Hey, Lauren.”
She turned, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun.
“Since we’re both stuck here, how about catching dinner? Least I can do to thank you for the ride.”
She paused for a moment, considering, and he realized he was holding his breath.
“Thanks, but I’m really tired. I think I’m just going to turn in.”
When she turned back to the door, he couldn’t deny the bite of her rejection. This just wasn’t his day.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
