shrugged. “Call it a holding pattern.”
“Holding for what?”
“I’m working on that.”
He didn’t want to tell her about the book. Not just because publication would prove him a liar. It was also her cynicism. And that she was holding back her own secrets.
But the main reason was that he’d only just begun to work his way into the project. It was still too private and new. For the past week, he’d been expanding the pieces he’d written as previous blog entries, trying to shape them into some kind of proposal for the publishers. He wasn’t convinced he had enough of a story to make a memoir beyond his experiences in Afghanistan, from brutal to banal.
The more personal revelations were a trickier proposition. So far he hadn’t touched them. Turning over the rocks and digging up the dirt, especially in public, would take every ounce of dogged grit he possessed.
Ruthlessness, too.
With some of those involved, like his biological father, he could be ruthless. Near to it, anyway.
But with Meg? That was harder to imagine. He’d never been capable of hurting her. This time, he would have to.
THEY ARRIVED at the auction, which was held in an immense barn at an exposition center. Leaving the low-slung Camaro among a lot filled with SUVs, trucks pulling trailers, and other gas guzzlers, they made their way inside. After stopping to register, they headed directly to the stalls and a small holding corral where the riding horses were being kept. The air was ripe with the earthy scents of leather, livestock and fodder.
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