Say You'll Stay And Marry Me

“Maybe you spilled some water when you filled the radiator, and it’s just running down that hose?” she asked hopefully.

But he shook his head. “It’s another leak. You’ve probably had it a while and didn’t even know it. You better drive to the station and I’ll replace that hose, too. In fact, you ought to change out all your hoses if you’re headed clear to Canada.”

Sara sighed and nodded. “You’re right.” She felt her teeth begin to worry the inside of her cheek and forced herself to stop the nervous habit. Another hour or so didn’t make any difference. She’d still make Jackson in time to get a spot in a park, although it might be difficult this close to Yellowstone on a Friday evening in the middle of June. Well, she’d worry about it when she got there. If nothing else, two years on the road had given her a nonlinear perspective of time. Yesterdays and tomorrows tended to blend together. Straightening, she removed the metal rod and let the hood slam into place.

“I’ll meet you at the station then,” she said briskly.

“I’ll be right behind you.” Mac started for his truck and she allowed herself a moment to watch him while his back was to her, to appreciate the way he moved, confident and purposeful, with long strides that stretched his faded jeans in interesting ways around his hips.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, she chided herself. Ogling the man like some sex-starved, premenopausal old woman. She shook her head at her thoughts and climbed behind the wheel, reminding herself that with a ranch and two sons—maybe more—there was sure to be a wife in a gingham apron somewhere inside that big white house.

Sara reached under the seat and pulled out her purse. She set it in its customary place, precisely in the middle of the bench seat between the seat belt fasteners. Then she adjusted the side mirrors and tilted the rearview mirror a minuscule degree. Her thumb brushed over the lighted radio panel to remove the slight film of dust that had accumulated during her drive north from Rock Springs.

There.

Perfect.

She slipped the truck into gear and guided it onto the highway, heading back the way she’d come.

A half hour later, Mac was tightening the last clamp. Sara watched from where she sat on the cool concrete floor, her back against the leg of a splintered workbench. He’d raised the truck on the hydraulic lift to reach an awkward hose and was standing under the engine, arms above his head. His work shirt was pulled tight across his back, the denim worn thin enough that she could see the outline of his muscles as they bunched and flexed in his shoulders. His biceps swelled with every twist of his wrist, and she stared, fascinated by the masculine rhythm.

The loud jingle of the station door opening made her blink, and she dragged her eyes away from their voyeuristic study. “It’s, uh, it’s pretty busy around here,” she said. The bell had signaled a customer several times already, keeping Michael running between the pumps and the cash register.

“Weekends are good.”

She saw Michael head out to check the oil on a red minivan. “Michael’s certainly working hard. Do you have other children that help?”

“Jacob’s up at the ranch right now.” Mac muttered a quick curse as he tried to reach into a tight space.

“It must be tough to manage a ranch and a gas station at the same time,” Sara said. Talk was better than silence, she’d decided, considering where silence seemed to lead her thoughts.

“It’s not too bad. We only open the station in the summer—for the tourists. It’s a way for the boys to earn college money.” His voice echoed hollowly from inside the engine. “During the winter, we use the garage to repair the ranch equipment and store our fuel in the tanks. It beats running in to Dutch Creek every time you need gas.”

“You’re a long way from anywhere, all right.” She shifted on the floor, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them.

“Sometimes too far.” He let out a puff of held breath as he gave a last twist to the screwdriver. “Sometimes not far enough.” He ducked his head and peered at her. “Hey, Sara, bring me a soda from the cooler, will you? And get something for yourself if you want.”

She got up and dusted off the seat of her jeans. “I still owe you for the last one.”

“I told you, it’s on the house.”

“Not this time. And not for your work this time, either. I expect a hefty bill for all this.”

Mac lowered his arms and grinned at her as he wiped his hands on a rag. “I’ll get out my adding machine.”

She went through the open door into the gas station, the whining of the lowering lift audible as she pulled open the foggy glass front to the soda case. “What kind does your dad like?” she asked Michael, who was at the cash register.

Before he could answer, Mac’s shout ricocheted from the garage, followed by an ominous thud—then silence. Her eyes met the startled boy’s. He sprang to his feet at the same time she turned, and together they raced into the garage.

“Mac?”

“Dad?”

Her truck was in the middle of the floor, innocently resting on its four wheels, but Mac was nowhere in sight.

“Mac?” Sara called again.

She rounded the truck, Michael at her heels, so close that he bumped into her when she stopped abruptly. Mac half-sat, half-lay on the cement, propped on his elbows, staring at his leg, his face pasty white. Sara’s stomach did a flip as her gaze followed his and she saw the way his boot twisted outward at an unnatural angle.

He looked at her with a small, rueful smile. “It looks like this is going to be an expensive job for me, too.”

Chapter Two

“Broken?” Sara asked, surprised at how calm she sounded since her heart thundered against her ribs, jolted by adrenaline.

“I’d say so.” Mac was obviously trying to sound in control, as well, but the roughness in his voice belied the calm words.

“Michael, go get your mother, please.” She laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder and hoped it felt reassuring in spite of its tremble. “We better get your dad to a hospital.”

Michael shook his head. He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed, but no sound came out. His mouth opened and closed futilely.

“His mother and I are divorced.” A sheen of perspiration covered Mac’s forehead. “Michael, I’m okay. Run up to the barn and tell Jacob to get down here—see if we can pry me off this floor. Go on, now. I’m okay.”

Movement returned to the boy’s stunned limbs and he was out of the garage in a flash, running as if his father’s life depended on it.

Sara looked helplessly at Mac. “What happened?” She moved to kneel beside him, afraid to touch him but instinctively wanting to be close.

“Tire caught my boot when she came off the lift.”

Sara looked at his twisted foot, horrified. “You mean my truck landed on your foot?”

“Just the tip of my boot, but it knocked me off balance.” He joined her in staring at his foot, now free of the tire. “Leg went one way, foot went the other.”

She felt sick at the thought and her stomach lurched again. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is!” She reached toward him, then pulled back, her hand wavering in the air. “You were doing the code of the west thing, with the hat and spurs and all, just like Zane Grey, and look what happened! This is all my fault. Here, let me help you—”

Mac was trying to push himself up by sliding his hands forward a fraction at a time.

She could tell the movement was excruciating. She tried to support his back without jarring his leg. “Better?”

He nodded, a jerky little bob as if he was afraid of any larger movement. “Thanks. Now, what’s all this about Zane Grey?”

Before she could answer, she heard the thud of running feet, then two boys dashed into the garage, breathless.

“Jeez.” Jacob appeared older than his brother but had the same straight brown hair and country-scrubbed look, like he’d been hung to dry in the sun. His looks were at odds with the strong barnyard odor that clung to him, and Sara guessed he’d been mucking those same stalls Michael had worried would be assigned to him.

“Is it broken?” He echoed Sara’s words.

“Yeah. Call the Swansons and ask Libby to drive me into Dutch Creek.”

Jacob shook his head. “They’re in Cheyenne, remember? The Cattlemen’s Association meeting.”

“Well, call the Reeds then. See if Robby can—”

“They’re in Cheyenne, too. At the—”

“Right, the Cattlemen’s Association meeting.” Mac’s shoulders were rigid with tension.

“I can drive you, Dad,” the boy offered.

“No way.”

“Come on,” Jacob pleaded. “I’m fourteen. This is an emergency, for cripe’s sake. I’ll go real slow. I can do it, Dad.”

“Jacob, you don’t have a license. You can drive around the ranch all you want but you’re not going on the highway, and I don’t feel like having this discussion right now. Try Joe over at—”

“Is my truck fixed?” Sara interrupted.

All three turned to her in surprise, as if they’d forgotten she still knelt beside Mac, her hand touching his back.

Mac said, “It’s all set.”

“Then, gentlemen, let’s help your father up and see if we can maneuver him into the cab.” It was the least she could do, she thought. This was all her fault. She should have replaced those hoses in Denver. The truck should have been perfect before she left Laura’s. Perfect.

She stood and eyed the boys, both several inches taller than her own five-foot-five and quite a few pounds heavier. “One on each side,” she directed, “and let him put all his weight on your shoulders until he gets his good leg under him.”

Mac immediately protested, “Sara, we can manage. I’ll just call one of the neighbors and—”

“It sounds like they’re all in Cheyenne to me, and besides, I’m headed for Dutch Creek, anyway.” She smiled. “I’ll just push you out the door in the hospital parking lot. You won’t even slow me down.”

Mac’s answering grin was weak. “Since you put it that way, thank you.”

“Thank me once we get you up. I don’t think this is going to be pleasant. Ready, boys?”

Hesitant but determined, they positioned themselves beside their father. Mac put an arm around each shoulder and slowly, carefully, they stood, lifting him to his feet.

Sara could almost hear his teeth grind as he tried not to yell when his broken ankle shifted and the weight of his boot pulled on it. He blanched again and his jaw twitched spasmodically.

“Are you okay?”

Mac grunted and took a deep breath. He let it out slowly, hissing between clenched teeth, “Let’s go.”

With a half-hop, half-shuffle, the boys helped him around the pickup to where she held open the passenger door. Mac put his good foot on the running board and managed to heave himself sideways onto the seat, leaving both legs stuck out the door.

Michael appeared near tears as he watched his father inch backward, dragging his injured foot inside the cab bit by bit.

“Michael,” Sara said to the younger boy, hoping to distract him, “see if you can find something soft for your father to rest that foot on. It might swell less if it’s propped up.”

“There’s cushions on those chairs next to the counter,” he suggested, already turning.

“That should do the trick. Speaking of swelling, I wonder if we should try to get that boot off.”

“Don’t touch it!” It was clear Mac’s shout was involuntary.

She glanced at the heavy leather boot, obviously of high quality in spite of signs of wear. “I’d hate for them to have to cut off your boot, that’s all.”

“Nobody’s cutting off my boot!” He sounded even more alarmed. “Michael, you just put those pillows on the floorboard there and I’ll be fine.” He’d backed up until he was almost opposite the steering wheel, his legs still pointed toward the door. Michael piled three canvas-covered pillows on the floor, and slowly Mac slid his injured left leg off the seat to rest on the stack, as straight as the cramped confines of the cab allowed. He bent his right leg at the knee and pulled it in far enough for Sara to shut the door.

“Michael, take care of the station,” he called through the open window, “and Jacob, be sure to finish Justice’s stall. And take a shower.”

“Can’t we come with you?” Michael asked, still worried but trying hard not to show it. “Maybe we could ride in the camper?”

“There’s no sense you hanging around the hospital. You’d have to stay in the waiting room the whole time. I’ll phone you as soon as I get there and have somebody in town run me home.”

“But—”

Mac ignored his interruption. “I’ll only be gone a couple hours. They’ll stick me in a cast, hand me some crutches, and I’ll be home in time to fix supper. Scratch that, I’ll pick up a couple of pizzas, okay?”

“You’ll call?” Michael stood on the running board and leaned through the window.

“I’ll call.” Mac reached out to ruffle his hair. “And you call the hospital and tell them we’re coming in so they can track down the doctor. Sara, you ready?”

She tried to slide behind the wheel, only to find her hip and shoulder come up firmly against Mac. She had to press herself against the length of him in order to squeeze in enough to shut her door.

“Do you have enough room?” He started to shift over but a sharp intake of breath told her how much the effort cost him.

“You hold still. Just let me fasten my seat belt.” She groped awkwardly behind him until she managed to press the metal clip of her seat belt into the fastener that poked into Mac’s hip. Her fingers were clumsy with embarrassment as they fumbled against the back of his jeans, and she knew her cheeks reddened.

After turning the key to start the engine, she reached out to adjust the rearview mirror, but stopped herself halfway. No time for that. No time for the little ceremonies that so easily became habit. No time to make everything perfect. Ignoring the unease she felt at skipping the ritual, she shoved the truck into gear, her hand brushing along Mac’s thigh with every movement, and backed out of the garage.

Mac waved to the boys, who stood forlornly in the open door of the garage, and Sara guided the truck onto the highway, avoiding as many jarring potholes as she could.

As soon as they rounded a curve in the road, putting the garage out of sight, she felt Mac slump heavily against her. His shoulders rounded inward as he hunched against the pain.

“Damn,” she breathed, suddenly realizing his cheery wave had been an act for the boys’ sake. “How far to Dutch Creek?”

“Forty miles.”

“I’ll drive fast.”

“Good.”

They were silent, the only sound the growl of the truck’s engine as she accelerated well past the speed limit The door handle dug uncomfortably into her hip and she shifted in her seat. The imperceptible movement brought her into even closer contact with Mac.

“Sorry,” she said.

“That’s okay.” He made an obvious effort to collect himself. “Look, we’re going to be pretty close for the next forty-five minutes, so we might as well be comfortable.” He put his arm across the back of the seat behind her head, giving them extra inches of shoulder room. “Now, you lean into me and I’ll lean into you, and we’ll sort of prop each other up.”

Sara tried to relax against him but so many nerve endings tingled from his nearness she felt her muscles stiffen and contract rather than relax. The feel of his forearm so close behind the bare skin of her neck, the sight of his fingers curved loosely near her shoulder, the way she nestled so perfectly under his arm—

“So, now that I’m a captive audience—”

Mac’s voice made her jump, she’d been so engrossed in the unique sensations flooding her body, her unexpected reactions to the man.

“—we might as well get to know each other a little better. Tell me something about Sara Shepherd.”

She stared at the mountains ahead of her, a little closer, a sharper outline against the brilliant blue sky. The wind whipped in the window, teasing strands from the elastic band securing her ponytail. “I’m forty-three,” she began, pulling a wisp of hair from her mouth and pushing it behind her ear. “Grew up on a farm outside of Denver. Married young. Widowed for four years now. One child, a daughter named Laura. She’s twenty-four.”

She stopped. Over twenty years summed up in little more than a breath. Mac seemed to be waiting for more, but she suddenly could think of nothing else to say. Married, widowed, one child. The life of Sara Shepherd.

“That’s all? A succinct curriculum vitae if I ever heard one.”

She smiled. “Trying to impress me with your Latin, huh? Reminds me of a professor friend of my husband. He likes to sprinkle his speech with a little quid pro quo now and then.”

“It’s a habit I picked up from an old English professor of mine at the University of Wyoming.”

She looked at Mac in surprise. “The University of Wyoming? You can’t mean Cyrus Bennington?”

“Don’t tell me you know Cyrus?”

“Know him? I just spent two days visiting him in Cheyenne! He and my husband were very close. My husband was an English professor at the University of Denver.”

“How about that!” Mac exclaimed. “Cyrus and I have been friends since my college days. He comes out here every August, trades in that English driving cap of his for a Stetson, lights up a stogie instead of his pipe and plays cowboy for a week or so.”

She laughed. “Now that I can’t picture. Cyrus with a secret life. He’s never mentioned it.”

“Small world, huh?” Mac’s smile made the lines around his eyes crinkle even more, and Sara found herself wanting to take her eyes from the road often to look at him.

“So now that we’ve discovered we’re almost related,” he said, “I think you can enlarge a little on that life’s story of yours, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “It will bore you to tears—put you right to sleep.”

“A woman with a face like a cameo angel driving a truck all alone to Canada? I don’t think so.” She could feel his gaze slide over her features and her heart skipped a nervous beat. “To tell you the truth,” he went on, “if you put me to sleep I’d be grateful. And don’t bother to wake me up when we get to the hospital, either. Whatever they’re going to do to me, I think I’d rather be asleep.”

Guilt stabbed through her again. If listening to her talk would take his mind off his ankle, give him something to concentrate on besides the pain, she’d gladly talk from here to Dutch Creek.

“You want my whole life’s story then?”

“Start with the ‘just traveling’ part.” Mac laid his head against the seat and closed his eyes. “How long have you been just traveling?”

“Two years.”

“Two years!” His eyes flew open and he turned his head sharply to look at her, jarring his leg. “Ow!” He set his boot more securely on the stack of pillows. “I was thinking more along the lines of a couple of weeks.”

“Nope. Two years.”

“You’ve been traveling around the country, living in your camper, for two years?”

She nodded.

Mac settled against the seat once more like a child awaiting a favorite story. “Okay, start from the beginning.”

The beginning? She wasn’t sure there was a beginning. When had her life with Greg began to seem like a trap rather than a marriage? When had the dishes and the laundry and the PTA bake sales combined to drag her down until she had no idea how to lift herself up any more?

“I guess things sort of came to a head when Laura graduated from college.” She took a firmer grip on the steering wheel as she tried to pick her way through the debris of the past. “My husband had been dead for two years by then, and I was still living in Denver. Most of our friends had really been Greg’s friends, it turned out, and I found myself alone a lot. All alone in that house.” Her voice tightened. “That house. Dusting that same damn china every week, vacuuming that mile-long carpet in the living room—vanilla cream carpet—washing those blinds with all those metal slats, row after row of them, catching every particle of dust—” She broke off as she saw Mac looking at her curiously. She consciously relaxed her jaw, which had tensed at the memories.

“Anyway, when Laura graduated from college, I said enough. I threw in the suburban-housewife towel. Sold the house, the lawn mower, the matching china—I had a yard sale you wouldn’t believe. Sold every last thing.” She found herself smiling. Just the thought of ridding herself of the shackles of her previous life could still make her breathe easier, more freely. Twenty-two years worth of clutter—all gone.

Mac saw the smile and couldn’t comprehend it. He still had his merit badges from Boy Scouts, Jacob’s first baby tooth, his father’s World War Two duffel bag. Those possessions grounded him, defined him, located him and his space in the impersonal scheme of things. They were the physical, tangible record of a life, and no one sold a life at a yard sale.

He said, “I don’t believe it. Not everything. You couldn’t have sold your daughter’s baby book.”

“Of course not!”

Aha! He’d known it.

“I gave it away.”

“What?”

“I gave all that kind of personal stuff to Laura. Passed it on to the next generation, so to speak. Those things are important to Laura. All I’ve got left is three pairs of shoes, a few pairs of jeans, enough dishes to fill a strainer, a CD player...” She paused and appeared to think for a moment. “That’s about it. Oh, and a spider plant.”

“A decadent luxury.”

Sara laughed. “I’m managing to keep it alive.”

The throbbing in his ankle reached clear to his hip by now, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on this woman beside him who’d pared her life down to an unrecognizable skeleton. “You mean there’s no dog to share the campfire with? No collection of matchbooks from places like Sweettooth, Texas? No knitting bag with a halffinished chartreuse pillow cover?”

She shook her head. “I read a lot.”

“Hmm.” He scratched the back of his neck absently. They came up on an eighteen-wheeler and Sara passed the huge truck without loosing speed. Smooth. Controlled. Crossing and recrossing the white line with practiced skill—two years of practice. The more she told him, the more he wanted to probe.

“So you sold everything, got into your truck and headed—where?”

“It didn’t matter at the time. I guess it still doesn’t. Into the sunset sounded good as far as I was concerned. I drove to the closest interstate entrance, and since I didn’t want to make a left into traffic, I took a right. And right was north.” She rested her elbow on the open window and drummed her fingers against the outside of the door, occasionally letting the force of the wind lift her hand and push her palm open. It was as if she caressed the air, savored the motion, as she described that first dash to freedom.

“It was the middle of July, blastingly hot, so I kept on going north. Seattle, British Columbia, then skirted the northern states, Minnesota, New York, Maine. I ran out of land in Bar Harbor and it was starting to get cold so I turned south. By November I was somewhere in Georgia. I spent that winter in the south avoiding the snow, then when it warmed up I headed north again. Sort of a big, looping circle.”

“Sounds like the way herds migrate.”

She smiled. “I guess.”

He tried to understand. “But herds follow the food, the grass. What did you follow? What do you follow?” He studied her as she kept her eyes on the road, the asphalt singing beneath the tires. What siren’s song did she hear?

“It still doesn’t matter. There’s no destination to this trip.” She sounded very sure. He knew she’d already asked herself the same questions. “As long as I never have to write another to-do list as long as I live, I’ll be happy. No schedule, no have-tos, no responsibilities, no one depending on me—”

“But what about your daughter?” Where was the room for family in a one-woman camper? he wondered.

“Laura.” Sara sighed. “She’s a grown woman. She’s got a college degree, a good job, her own apartment, her own life—but she considers the way I live some kind of personal affront.”