Chapter 35
Seven Days Until the End of the Summer Excavation Season
A gust of wind breaks over Yellowtail Ranch as the rear door of the box truck rolls closed with a hollow thud.
Ripley cinches the strap of her straw sun hat under her chin. If it blows away, there’ll be no catching it, and she’ll have to borrow a cowboy hat from Geraldine if she doesn’t want a sunburned nose.
A minute ago, as she patted the crates one last time, she caught herself wondering if the fossils would recognize her today.
For one thing, she’s left her hair down, the way James likes it.
She catches him looking as the wind toys with the long, loose curls, a considering angle to his mouth.
His gaze dips to the fit of her jeans across her thighs, the fancy stitching on her western boots, the touch of her belly flashing as the breeze flirts with the ruffled hem of her top.
She gives him a deliberately flirty wink.
He laughs, but there’s a promise in his eyes: Later, Ripley.
Griff throws the latch to the cargo hold with a clank that echoes beneath her ribs. He and James each take one of Geraldine’s dollies and head toward the barn, chatting amiably. Those two never seem to run out of stuff to say.
Cara smooths her hands down Ripley’s arms and gives her a gentle shake. “You can still come to the scanner, Rip. You don’t have to be all WASPy and pretend you’re not sad.”
Ripley shakes her head. She’s been ridiculous already—stroking the crates, talking to Beauty and Beast like they’re not millions of years dead, their bones merely placeholders in the Montana dirt.
“It’s your rodeo now, C. Besides, this is where I’d rather say goodbye.”
With no warning, Cara pulls her in for a tight hug. “We made it, Rip. We fucking made it, and the haters can suck it.”
“You betcha,” Ripley agrees, hugging Cara back. The embrace lasts for maybe ten seconds, a spark that glows and fades in the space of a breath. There’s a week left to close up the dig, but today feels like the beginning of the end.
“You’re a good teacher, Rip. A good mentor. A good friend. I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I’ll be here when you get back. And I’ll miss you too. Both of you. All of you,” Ripley says, tilting her head in the direction of the dig. She can feel it in her chest, this place. Maybe she always will. “More than you know.”
“Oh, I think I know.” Cara smirks saucily, but the corner of her mouth wobbles a little.
They’ve given the exhausted crew an extra-long weekend as a thank-you for a month of manic work.
Cara and Griff are going to drop off the fossils, return the truck to the rental place, then spend the weekend at the folk festival in Butte.
The rest of the crew left early this morning, Jordin and Matteo to spend a few days at his family reunion in West Yellowstone, the twins headed to Yellowstone National Park for some hiking and sightseeing.
Ripley considered one last road trip for herself and James, but he wanted to spend the weekend here. They’re going to ride over to a tiny local fair in a nearby farmer’s field, then come home, together.
Griff calls, “We better rattle our dags, Carrie love. Don’t want to miss that appointment.”
“Carrie?” Ripley asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t try it,” Cara warns, giving Ripley a stern look. “It’s only okay when he says it.”
“I bet. Drive safe, Care…ah.” She blows a kiss at her friend’s outstretched middle finger and walks over to hug Griff. “Don’t let my girl drive too fast.”
“Your babies are safe with me, Rip.” He swings up into the truck, patting the door frame for emphasis. “I booked the one with extra-cushy shocks.”
“Thanks, Griff.” Then, because it feels like it might be the last time, she adds, “Is rattle our dags really a thing they say in Australia?”
He looks at her incredulously. “ ’Course it is. Who would make up a thing like that?”
“This may come as a surprise, but I haven’t ridden that many horses.” Ripley looks doubtfully at the saddled pair James led out from the barn.
“There’s nothing to it, Ripley. You climb on and sit tight. Keep your spine loose. Move with the horse. And—erm, that’s all, really,” James finishes hastily at her death stare. “Also, Geraldine says the car park is ridiculous and someone always gets sideswiped.”
“All right, all right,” she says, sure she’s going to regret this.
She doesn’t regret it. She does suspect he touches her more than necessary when he’s adjusting her saddle. And she gets to watch James Smithson ride a horse for fifteen minutes, which is basically like watching a centaur except with way more thighs.
“Show-off,” she scoffs when he makes Hoodoo dance in a tight circle.
“She noticed us,” he tells the horse. “Keep it up, and there’s extra oats in it for you.”
From the outside, the fair looks every bit as dinged up and creaky as you’d expect a traveling carnival would. Ripley’s not entirely sure James will like it, but they tie the horses’ reins to the hitching post, fork over twenty bucks apiece to the bored teen sitting in the entry kiosk, and head in.
Inside, there’s a surprisingly fancy merry-go-round, a kiddie roller coaster in the shape of a rainbow caterpillar, and a giant slide that looks like it could tell a few tales of bloody noses.
James very seriously fills out a ballot judging the delightfully bonkers flower arrangements by local grade-schoolers.
Ripley decides she doesn’t have to tell him they’re on a date.
He might know it, though. He buys her an enormous cone of rainbow cotton candy and plays the tub toss until he’s won her a gigantic stuffed Dalmatian with a suggestively lolling pink tongue.
He tucks it under her arm, takes her chin in his hand, and kisses her right in the middle of the midway for so long that people yell at them to get a room.
For her part, she buys him the most American carnival foods she can find, just so he’ll give her his ramrod-spined British opinions about them.
Banana-battered peanut butter cups: “Only the Americans remain unaware of the horror that is peanut butter. And please don’t tell me your President Carter was a peanut farmer. On behalf of all foreigners everywhere, we know.”
Chocolate-covered bacon on a stick: “Now, this I can get behind.”
Deep-fried beer pockets: “These are entirely inexplicable. Wait, are you videoing me?”
She is. She doesn’t take pictures on the dig, because backgrounds can be zoomed in on and cloud files can be hacked.
But she wants to have an image of him to remind her of when they were happy.
She wants to replay his voice saying inexplicable with that unhurried cadence.
She wants to feel her heart swell and ache in equal measure as she harvests memories, hoping they can be preserved.
Ripley’s phone chimes as they’re browsing novelty belt buckles. She ignores it.
“Do people actually wear these?” James asks, contemplating one that says I Love Hose over a dripping nozzle.
“You’d have to be pretty…cocky,” she says, flashing him one with a winking rooster.
“Perhaps I am,” he says archly, holding the hose one up to his jeans. Ripley doesn’t know where he got those thrift-store Levi’s, but they are absolutely criminal on his legs.
This moment is the one she wants to keep.
She wishes it were possible to photograph the feeling of wandering through stalls, looking for nothing in particular.
Of being full of delicious, life-shortening food and sipping on giant containers of electric-blue slush to counteract the sun’s heat.
Of not being in a rush to go anywhere or do anything.
It’s a silly waste of an afternoon, and she’s never loved anything more.
The second chime comes a minute later, after they’ve moved on to the display of prizewinning produce. It’s chased by two more before Ripley can put down the Dalmatian and fumble the phone from her bag.
Only Cara blows up her phone like this, and Cara shouldn’t have a free hand available for texting right now. She should be wheeling the fossils through the airport on her way to the scanner.
“Ripley?” James puts down a zucchini the size of a baseball bat.
CALL ME NOW, says the first text.
NOW GODDAMMIT NOW, says the second.
The FBI is here
I’m making them produce a warrant. They’re trying to c
Ripley doesn’t want to think about what could’ve made Cara press Send in mid-word without following up with another message.
“Bloody fucking hell,” James says, reading over her shoulder.
What’s going on???? Ripley replies. When Cara doesn’t respond, she tries calling. “No answer,” she says, her skin tingling with icy pinpricks.
James grabs her hand. “We have to go.”
“My Dalmatian—”
“Leave it.”
And then they’re running across the fairground hand in hand, Ripley behind James, his body clearing a path for hers. They dodge pedestrians and scooters and strollers. Ripley has to jump over a small dog; she shouts “Sorry!” over her shoulder and gets a colorful epithet in return.
At the hitching post, James is mounted before Ripley can even untie her horse. “We’ll be faster this way,” he says. He reaches down and pulls her into the saddle behind him.
James’s chest is hard under her hands, Hoodoo’s body surging beneath them. It’s uncomfortable, but home isn’t far, and Ripley doesn’t care about her tailbone. Please, she thinks. Please, please, please.
Geraldine’s waiting on the porch when they arrive. James hands Ripley down, tosses Geraldine the reins, and straps himself into the passenger seat of the Charger like this is Formula One. “Punch it,” he commands as Ripley gets in, closing his eyes.
“Do you have your medication?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t take it. Go, Ripley.”
They fly down the highway, blowing by everyone who’s doing anything remotely resembling the speed limit. If there’s a cop on this road, they’re fucked.
The knowledge that they’re probably fucked anyway perches darkly on Ripley’s shoulder. Cara isn’t replying to the texts James is sending on Ripley’s phone.