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
