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