11. Val #2
Shame burned from my toes to my nose. I cleared my throat. “That would be helpful. Thank you, Agen—I mean, Ma.”
She smiled again. “There’s a board with spare keys just inside my office. The blue key ring is for the Chevy in the garage. It’s all yours.”
I watched her move down the hallway until she turned a corner, out of sight. I quickly found the key and the sunburnt Silverado. A thrill of exhilaration ran through me at the small taste of freedom.
The drive to the outer pasture took only a few minutes, and I drove slowly to enjoy the splash of pinks and oranges that rioted against the indigo buttes silhouetted during sunset. The Chicago skyline was nothing compared to a sunset in Big Sky Country.
I pulled the truck against the wire fence that penned in the cows. Their low moos rang out, acknowledging my presence.
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”
I found a thick wood post and had bent to crawl under the wire when a hint of panic raced through me.
Are there bulls in here?
Realizing I wouldn’t know the difference between a bull and a cow, as well as the fact I wasn’t planning on venturing into the pasture, I nestled myself against the post.
I leaned my head back, closing my eyes and taking in the sounds and smells of nightfall in Montana. The air was pine and smoke. I pulled it deep into my lungs and held it there.
Stress melted from my shoulders, inch by inch.
I watched the cows laze in the pasture. Their long horns and rakish, floppy hair delighted me for reasons I couldn’t pin down.
Their expressive eyes and easy nature were a reprieve from the watchful stares of their human counterparts.
On the days when I was feeling extra sorry for myself, I found imagining the dramas of life on a cattle farm amusing.
Lost in thoughts of cattle romances, the soft sound of boots through the tall grass had my ears pricking and my head whipping around.
As I pinned the silhouette with a stare, my fight-or-flight response on edge, my jaw dropped.
Evan sauntered toward me, his hands deep in his back pockets, emphasizing the expanse of his broad chest. A small smile tugged at his lips as he came into view.
His head hung low, and when he got close enough, he peeked at me through his long, dark lashes.
My body tightened in response.
Holy fuck this guy is hot .
I cleared my throat. “How did you know I was out here?”
“You passed my place on the way over. I was out on the porch when you drove by.”
I took my time looking him up and down, hoping the gesture helped me look indifferent rather than appreciative of how the T-shirt beneath his flannel molded to his body.
“Can I join you?” he asked, gesturing to the space beside me.
I nodded and scooted my butt to the left, leaving my back partially rested against the thick fence post. Evan moved between the wires to sit beside me. He propped his forearms on his knees and looked out onto the pasture.
“I always thought the Highland cattle looked more human than cows.”
I peeked at him and fought the smile that tugged at my lips. “It’s the hair. They just seem so emo .” I was rewarded with a deep rumble of Evan’s laughter. The tension in my back dissolved further, and I nestled my shoulders along the thick fencepost.
Once I rifled through my backpack, I smoothed the tea towel out and placed the food between us. When I pulled the bottle of bourbon from the pack, Evan quirked one eyebrow.
I smiled. “Secret stash.”
He bumped his shoulder into mine. “I won’t tell if you share.” Instead of moving back into his space, he left his shoulder lightly touching mine, and my brain swam with endorphins. I wanted to feel his heat, to let it curl around me and pull me closer.
I uncapped the bottle and took a healthy sip.
The buttery, caramel flavor crept over my tongue as the burn of the alcohol warmed my belly.
My eyes never left Evan, and his eyes never left my mouth.
I sucked the excess liquid off my lower lip and passed him the bottle.
Evan shook his head before taking a sip.
“Mmm. This is good.” Surprise was laced in his voice.
“I had a friend who was really into old fashioneds. I learned how to find a decent bourbon.”
I finished putting the rest of the food on the towel and tore off a hunk of bread to hand to Evan.
When he took it, I could appreciate, up close, how wide and rugged his hands were.
Long, thick fingers gave way to a massive palm.
I noticed his right hand was streaked with old, crepe-paper scars, the knuckles uneven and bumpy.
I gestured toward it. “Broken hand?”
Evan looked down as he flexed his hand. “A few times.” One finger tracked down the large bumps on the back of his hand. “One time needed plates and screws.”
“Looks painful.” I tried to read his impassive face.
“It was.” I hated the grim line that deepened the furrow in his brow as he rubbed his hand.
I held my hand toward his face, fingers spread.
“I’m pretty tough, too, you know. Do you see this one here?
” I pointed between my pinky and ring finger.
He squinted and held my hand in his, the contact shooting rioting ripples low in my belly.
“Well, that scar is from a minor disagreement with a kitchen knife.”
His chuckle danced over my skin, the sound deep and warm. I didn’t want him to let go of my hand, but when he released it, I could still feel the tingle of his fingers on mine. Evan shook his head as he took a bite of bread.
“Okay, fine. Well, this one here ...” I bent to trace a finger up the long scar that ran from my left ankle eight or so inches up my leg. “When I was sixteen, I snuck out to go sledding with friends and ended up breaking my leg in three places. Needless to say, I did not get away with it.”
A small laugh escaped his nose. “Yeah, I guess not.”
The soft buzz of cicadas filled the late spring air around us. I nestled back into his strong shoulder as I looked out onto the pasture before turning back to him.
“What about this one?” I flicked my thumb over the faint scar that ran above his lip into his nose. It was the only physical evidence that Evan was the same man who’d been in the courtyard that night. Something pulled at my chest, squeezing it tight. “Another fight?”
Evan’s thumb found the scar on his lip, and he swiped over it but didn’t speak.
I bumped my shoulder into him. “I almost forgot that brooding silences were a part of your charm.”
His head turned to me, and a soft smile played on his lips. “Not a fight. I was born with a cleft lip.”
I stared in stunned silence at the faint white scar that interrupted the scruff of his mustache.
“It caused plenty of fights though.” When I scrunched my eyebrows, he continued, “Kids are assholes. Teased me about it a lot. It’s where I learned to fight.”
Sadness and silence blanketed me. Evan had lived a very different life than I had.
Finally, he broke the silence. “You’re a good girl. You’re not supposed to have scars and broken bones from things you wish you couldn’t remember.”
I glanced at him, but his eyes were hard, cast out across the pasture in the fading light of evening.
I saw the opening so I took it. “So you ... were like a Mob guy?” My voice felt tiny and quiet compared to the roar of questions threatening to spill from inside me. Dredging up the past was a dangerous game .
“My name is Evan Walker, and I grew up in Montana. I work at Laurel Canyon Ranch.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “First of all, everyone’s going to know that’s total bullshit if you don’t fix that Chicago A sound. It gives you away. And second of all, you said you’d never lie to me.”
Evan’s eyes searched my face as he leaned back against the post and stretched his long legs.
He sighed. “I was born Evan Marino. When I was eight years old, the county took my older brother, Parker, and me away from our mother after we showed up to school bruised, dirty, and hungry a few too many times. We were shuffled from place to place, no one wanting to keep two brat-ass kids who didn’t listen.
When Parker was sixteen and I was thirteen, we ran.
Parker met Michael, who was a numbers runner for the Mob.
He got a job collecting bet receipts, and we survived. ”
I took in the information he threw at me. A sad story of children without someone to love them, take care of them. My heart broke for them as I imagined those lost little boys.
Evan picked at the bread, tossing crumbs of it out into the grass as he spoke.
“Parker and Michael started running other errands for some connected guys in the city—it was good money. Over time he worked his way up. Parker’s always been a smooth talker.
He could get anyone to trust him. I followed along.
Kept my mouth fucking shut. As I grew up, I used my size and strength to do the jobs I was given and keep a roof over my head. ”
“Sounds scary.”
He shrugged one hard, muscular shoulder.
Lost in thought, he kept rambling. Hidden secrets spilled from him.
“We had this thing. A lot of times you couldn’t talk openly, especially when people were around.
You couldn’t trust anyone. ‘No bullshit.’ It’s how we knew that the words we spoke to each other were true.
” He laughed a sad, quiet laugh. “Turns out it was all bullshit, I guess.”
I propped my elbow on my knee and leaned my head on my hand so I could study his expression. Evan didn’t look at me but rather let his gaze trace over the mountains on the horizon as he picked at the grass and threw the pieces into the wind. Was it sadness? Remorse? Then it hit me.
Loneliness.
This man had never known kindness and love. “It sounds like a scared boy who did what he needed to do to survive.”
His dark eyes met mine. “In the beginning, maybe. But somewhere in there, I began to enjoy the work I did. I had a purpose, a family. And I didn’t give a fuck who I hurt in the process.”