That Kind Of Girl

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“Maybe I’m toying with the idea of becoming a nun, but I just can’t commit to the black habit.”

“Is joking about it your way of saying you don’t want to talk about it?”

Becca faced him, and he could see what a struggle it was for her to look him in the eye.

“Yes, it is. It’s an embarrassing subject.”

“I don’t mean to embarrass you, Becca. I just—”

“Then, let’s not talk about it. I’ve worked really hard, Colt, to overcome the person I used to be. And…I don’t know, seeing you again…for a while it was like I was back in high school again.” She swirled her brush in a dab of paint before she met his eyes again. “For some people, that’s a pleasant trip down memory lane. For me, it’s not. I don’t want to go through all that again, and I don’t want to think about it. The past is the past, and I can’t undo it. I’d really rather just not talk about it.”

He was silent for a moment, then picked up a rock and tossed it into the quarry. It arced and seemed to hang, then finally went down with a plop. “So, you’d rather I just keep away from you while I’m here.”

“No.” She looked at him, her brow furrowed. “No, I would not rather you do that.”

“You said seeing me made you feel like you were in high school again. If I bring back bad memories for you…”

“You make me remember what a fool I made of myself. That’s not your fault, it’s mine. But you bring back good memories, too. Like now, here in the quarry. Some of my fondest memories from growing up were right here. No, I don’t want you to stop coming to see me. I just don’t want to talk about the state of my nonexistent sex life anymore.”

He reached over and rubbed a finger lightly over her collarbone. The surprisingly intimate contact made her jump. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, and he drew his hand back and pulled her sweater closer around her neck. “Sounds fair enough.”

Colt arched suddenly, pressing his fist into the small of his back.

“You okay?” Becca asked.

He nodded, looking around as the rising dark drifted almost imperceptibly up from the quarry, turning the bottom a dark, dusky pink, the sides a golden rose. “It’s not bad. Just a little stiff. You remember those stories you used to make up when we came out here?”

“Sure. Parts of them, at least. Why, you want me to make up a story for you now?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I was just thinking you should try to sell those. You know, write them down. You could do the artwork, too. Have your own series of picture books.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” She sat on the boulder between them and tucked her feet up beside her.

“Seriously, you should. Why not?”

“Only about a jillion reasons. I have no education in writing or art. The stories were just fanciful things I made up.”

“I liked them.”

“You were nine. Book editors are a little older than that.”

“Their readers aren’t. Look, who cares if you have formal education or not?”

“It must be somewhat important. Everyone else who writes children’s books gets an education. You can’t believe how stiff the competition is in that field, Colt. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“How do you know until you try?”

Becca looked away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The breeze was picking up, rustling through the trees and waving in the tall grass. “I know.”

“You already tried.”

“Yes, I did. A few years ago, when I first started painting again. It got rejected.”

“And that was it?”

“There’s not much you can say after that.”

“How about ‘try again’? Becca, no one would get anywhere if they gave up after the first try.”

“Maybe I don’t want it bad enough to try again.” She moved her shoulders.

Colt was silent a moment, then stepped in front of her. The setting sun shone behind him, a red ball on the horizon at his back. The wind blew his dark curls, and his brown eyes looked intently at her. “But you do want it.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I really do.”

Colt sighed, then squatted in front of her. “Okay, the thing to do, when you’re faced with an obstacle, is list the things you have to overcome, then figure out how you’re going to overcome them, one by one. You said there were a jillion reasons, and the first one is your lack of education.”

“And how am I going to overcome that? Run off to art school now?”

“Not a bad idea. But no.” He stood and sat down on the rock beside her, taking her hand. “I don’t think that’s necessary. How long has it been since you sent that first book in?”

Becca shrugged. “Almost four years ago. Right after Mama died.”

“And since then you started painting again, right? And you’re doing the drawings for Dunleavy’s, too. So you have more experience, and therefore more education. You’ve learned things.”

“I suppose I have learned a few things, but—”

“No ‘buts.’ You’re better now than you were four years ago. So that problem is taken care of. Now, what’s the next?”

Becca shook her head and smiled. “I don’t know. A lot of publishers accept only computer artwork now. I don’t even have the programs on my computer. My old computer probably wouldn’t handle the programs even if I did have them.”

“But that problem could be solved pretty easily, with a little money.”

“Oh, yeah, a new computer and software. I’ll just run down to Circle D and pick those up.”

“What I’m saying is that it’s not impossible.”

“Spoken like someone who is not on a teacher’s salary. Do you have any idea how much computers cost?”

He ignored the question. “Okay, so what’s our next obstacle? That’s only two out of a jillion.”

Becca drew her head back and sighed. “Colt, seriously—”

“I am serious, Becca. What’s the next problem?”

She studied their fingers linked together. How was it, she wondered idly, that he felt so comfortable just picking up her hand, when she couldn’t seem to drag her mind away from the feel of his palm against hers, his fingers twining around her own?

“Come on, what is it?”

Becca raised her chin and looked Colt in the eye. “I really don’t think I can do it. I mean, I know I can write the stories, and I can do the art. I just don’t think I can do a good enough job that anyone would actually pay for them.”

“Oh, well then.” Colt stretched out his legs and smiled. “That’s not a problem. Because I think you can do it. Matter of fact, I think it enough for both of us. So don’t worry about that. You don’t have to believe in yourself. I believe in you.”

Becca stared at Colt, her breath caught in her throat, unable to speak. She had never realized that she had missed hearing those words in her life, never realized what a hole there was in her until Colt filled it, and so easily that it appeared effortless. She found herself blinking back hot tears.

“That—that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she whispered.

He turned to face her, his mouth open to speak. He looked into her eyes and closed his mouth again. His thumb moved over hers softly. “Well, I wasn’t going for that. I was just telling you the truth.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so special. You’d better watch it, Colt. A few more words like that, and I might not believe you’re the bad guy you keep trying to convince me you are.”

She wished the comment back as soon as she’d said it, because his face got that hard look she was coming to recognize and despise.

“That would be your mistake.” He released her hand and stood. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You should know as well as I do what I’m capable of.”

He was trying to push her away. She recognized it, and refused to let him. “I know what you’re capable of. You’re capable of encouraging me like no one ever has.”

“How do you know I didn’t just say that out of guilt?”

“Guilt over what?”

“Over not taking you with me when you asked me. For leaving you here to waste your life.”

Waste her life. The words swirled in the wind around Becca. She told herself that he didn’t really mean it, that he was just trying to push her away because she’d said something nice about him.

And knew it was working, after all. “Is that why you said that? Because you feel guilty?”

He didn’t answer. He stood before her, jaw clenching and releasing, and looked at the horizon.

Becca closed her eyes and looked away. She would not let him do this to her. He only had the weapon if she handed it to him, and she would not do that.

“If it is, then let me just ease your conscience. You did the right thing when you refused to take me with you. It would have been a colossal mistake, and I’m grateful that you had sense enough to see that at the time. And as for me wasting my life…” She sighed and raked a hand through her hair. “You haven’t wasted your life, have you, Colt? You pursued your dreams and became very successful. And what good has it done you? You’re still the same bitter, hateful person you were when you left Aloma. Only now, I believe you’re even harder than you used to be. The boy I knew would never have deliberately tried to hurt me the way you just did.”

She stood and brushed off the back of her dress. Her voice quiet, but steady, she said, “Damn you, Colt. Damn you for saying that. And damn you for thinking it.”

She gathered her equipment, refusing to give in to the tears that built behind her eyes.

Colt grabbed her arm as she moved by him. “Becca, wait.”

She faced him, her teeth clenched, determined that he wouldn’t see a trace of hurt in her eyes, would only see the anger she was fully justified in feeling.

“Damn it,” he said softly. He kissed her, hard, and she could feel the frustration vibrating off him. She let him, because she knew he was looking for a fight and she refused to give it to him.

When he drew his head away, she met his gaze squarely. “Was that guilt, too, Colt?” She was fiercely proud that her voice, if soft, at least didn’t tremble.

He scowled and backed away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well, was it? If you’re going to do that, at least don’t be a chicken about it. Was that guilt, too?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It wasn’t guilt.”

She opened her mouth to ask what it was. But she decided she didn’t want to know. Was better off not knowing. So instead of asking, she said, “I don’t want to play this game anymore, Colt.”

He cleared his throat. “And what game is that?”

She whirled around, her arms out, frustrated and angry at them both. “This stupid game. From the moment you came back into town, I’ve flirted with the idea of picking up where we left off that night. And you’ve thought about it, too—I can see it in your face when you look at me. But we both know it’s not going to happen. It won’t happen, and shouldn’t happen. It was a mistake before, and it would be even more of a mistake now, when we’re both old enough to know better.”

She stopped, hands on her hips. “I just—this is so stupid, Colt. You and I are never going to be together, so why can’t we both just—just—”

“Just what?” He stepped up, close, and took her by the wrist. “Why can’t we just…what?”

“Just forget about it. Forget about the whole thing and be like we used to be.”

He spoke through a clenched jaw. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? For twelve years I tried, and I did a pretty good job of forgetting about it. Until I saw you again. I only thought of it once or twice a day up till then. Now I think about it all the time. I can’t forget about it, because twelve years ago you asked me to make love to you. And all these years later, I still wish I could.”

Becca swallowed, staring into his eyes. She would have liked to speak, but her mind wouldn’t form the words.

“Did you hear me?” he demanded.

She nodded.

“I still want to. And you saying it will never happen, that doesn’t seem to change one bit the fact that I still want it to happen, so bad it’s making me crazy. You want me to quit playing games? Well, little girl, I want you to quit haunting me. I want you to quit being there every time I turn around, with that—” he stepped back and dropped her hand, waving at her “—smile, and those eyes that look right through me. I want to quit seeing you when you’re nowhere near me. Just stop.”

“I haunt you?”

“Damn right, you do. How could you not, standing there, looking at me like that? Yesterday it was all I could do to keep from throwing you down on the porch and taking you right there. And you want us both to just forget about it. Forget about it and be friends. And I guess that’s what we’ll have to do. Because any fool knows you don’t save something for thirty years, just to blow it on some bum passing through town. That’s the kind of thing that has to wait for Mr. Right. And we both know that’s not me.”

The bell over the door dinged as Colt pushed through it. Frank’s Barbershop still looked much the same as it had when Colt had gotten haircuts here as a boy, but it sure didn’t smell the same. Ever since Barbara Foust married that boat salesman and moved to Houston—closing down Aloma’s only beauty shop—Frank had been doing double haircare duty for the citizens of Aloma county. Or—as Frank liked to put it with a wink and a grin, as if he were saying something risquе—unisex styling.

Now, the small building was divided clearly. The men’s haircuts were done on the left side, with a red-and-white barber pole and fishing-and-hunting magazines beside the waiting area. On the other side, Hollywood lights surrounded the mirror, and pictures of pouting models’ faces lined the walls, giving examples of the latest hair fashions from New York and Paris. The old familiar smells of hair tonic and aftershave were now overpowered by the ammonia-laden odors of permanent waves and peroxide bleach.

Toby Haskell was just sitting down—on the men’s side, of course—for his monthly trim, when Colt walked in.

“Hey, Hoss!” he called as he saw Colt. “I haven’t seen you for a few days. I was afraid you’d taken off already. Corinne will skin me if I don’t bring you over for dinner before you go.”

Colt nodded. “Be happy to.”

“How about Sunday night? Frank, you be careful back there.” Toby twisted in his chair and looked back at the barber. “Don’t be cutting off anything I might need.”

“Turn around and quit telling me how to do my job,” Frank said congenially. He palmed the top of Toby’s head and faced it forward for him. “How much do you want off?”