Had to be some irony in there somewhere.
Angela stared out the window, wondering if her grandmother would be able to wire enough money to cover the cost of repairs. And just how was Angela supposed to explain being in Wyoming? Not to mention her reason for being here.
He’d hauled her out of the house and into the cab of his pickup so fast her head was still spinning. She was surprised he hadn’t dumped her by the side of the road. Instead, he’d cursed the lug nuts and her lack of a spare, took one look under the hood and ordered her back in his truck.
How could a man with one eye even have a driver’s license?
She met his hard stare in the extra-wide side-view mirror and sank farther into the bucket seat. “I was just looking for a bathroom.”
“They haven’t been usable in years.”
“Then where—”
“Not there.” He’d cut her off, but hadn’t answered her question. So where was she supposed to go? And where did he go?
And where did he live if “not there”?
She found it hard to imagine anyone living in that house with or without plumbing. But someone had lived there and died there. He didn’t elaborate, and several miles passed before Angela got the nerve to ask about his mother. “How long ago did she die?”
“There are no dead bodies in the house, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
It wasn’t.
But if he wasn’t going to accept her attempt to make peace, then why should she tiptoe around? “Good to know you’re not a cross-dressing psychopath.”
Other than muttering something about a cold day in hell, he let the Norman Bates Psycho reference slide.
A trace of wood smoke lingered in the cab, together with the pine-scented air freshener. Or was that Irish Spring? He’d shed the outer layer of dirt along with his outerwear.
Shedding her perceptions would take a lot longer.
He glanced at her in the side-view mirror again. “You know the opening scene of every teen horror movie—young woman, healthy lungs, goes looking for trouble and finds it? You’re that girl.”
Angela rolled her eyes. “You’re not as scary as you think you are.”
“And you’re not as tough.”
“I’m a lot tougher than you know.” She went back to staring out the window. A lot tougher.
The abruptness with which he returned his attention to the road signaled an end to their conversation. They continued in silence for several more miles, and she took full advantage of his blind side.
What did he look like under all that scraggly hair? With a little imagination, kinda like a roughed-up version of Alex O’Loughlin.
First impressions weren’t always right.
A jean jacket had replaced the heavy down coat and coveralls. Underneath that camouflage outerwear, he’d had on a clean chambray shirt and a plain white T-shirt. His Wranglers were also clean despite being worn through to indecency.
The last time she had a pair of strategically ripped jeans she’d paid over a hundred dollars for them. But it had been a long time since she’d been able to afford clothes costing that much.
He wore work boots. No cowboy boots or cowboy hat in sight despite him living in the Cowboy State. A couple U.S. Navy ball caps hung from the gun rack across the back window, where he kept his guns under lock and key.
But she’d already glimpsed his not-so-tough side. He was helping her, wasn’t he?
Well, helping to fix her car, at least.
“Do you miss her?” she persisted.
His hesitation made her think he was going to ignore the question. “I’m only sticking around long enough to clean up her mess.”
His answer wasn’t really a yes or a no, but the kind of response she’d come to expect from him. “Then what?”
As if trying to see the life ahead of him, he kept his eye on the road. “Hope someone buys me out.”
“You’re not keeping the place?”
“Why would I?”
“Sentimental reasons, I guess.” She was under the impression the property had been in the family for a long time, given the comments that had been bandied about in the diner. Something about his granddaddy rolling over in his grave if the grandson sold it.
“Trust me—” he slowed to a crawl, glancing around her before bumping over train tracks “—I don’t have a sentimental bone in my body.”
That she could believe.
He pulled into the parking lot of an auto parts store in the center of town. “Hard to keep a secret in a place like Henry’s Fork, but not a lot of people know about the condition of my mother’s house. And I’d appreciate it if they didn’t find out.”
“Who would I tell?”
He seemed satisfied with her answer. They got out of the truck and he held open the shop’s heavy glass door for her. Heads turned as they stepped inside. He pointed her toward the ladies’ room and walked up to the counter as if he didn’t care that everyone was staring at him.
When she came out a few minutes later a clerk—Jason, according to his name tag—was ringing up the sale. “Thirty-five dollars for the pump,” he said. “And five to patch the tire. Just bring it around back.”
“That’s it?” Angela asked. The amount was half of what she had on her, but less than she’d expected. And a lot less than a new radiator, which was the one thing Hatch had said she didn’t need.
While she was still digging around in her purse, he extracted his wallet and paid, ignoring her feeble protest.
“Thank you,” she said as the parts technician handed her the boxed pump and receipt. “I’ll reimburse you with my next paycheck,” she said to Hatch. “Which might be a while.”
Since she was out of work at the moment.
He shrugged off her promise. “Do you know how to put that in?”
“If either of you can recommend a good mechanic…?” She glanced from one man to the other. “And where I might find the nearest Western Union office.”
Just as soon as she was able, she’d be taking one of those powder puff car maintenance courses like the one she’d seen on the pink flyer in the ladies’ room. She never wanted to be this dependent on a man or a mechanic again. She didn’t want to be that B movie character in a broken-down car by the side of the road, just waiting for the serial killer to come along.
“Clay should be able to handle a water pump,” Jason said. “I’d do it myself just to work on an ’80 Seville. Cadillac took a lot of heat that year for using Oldsmobile parts and engines. If it’s really pink—” he cast a doubtful eye at Hatch “—I’d be willing to make you an offer.”
“Sorry,” Angela said. “Shirley signed a contract with Mary Kay. In order to buy the car she had to agree not to sell it to anyone other than a certified GM dealer.”
“And GM’s required to paint it.” Jason shrugged, having known her answer all along. “It was worth a try.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could tell me where I might find Clay.”
After a moment’s hesitation Jason pointed to Hatch.