Chapter Twenty-Eight
Royce
The drive out to Moran is supposed to take about forty-five minutes, but I make it closer to an hour. Not because the road is bad or because I get lost. I just take my sweet-ass time getting there.
Having Marina beside me makes me in no particular hurry to reach our destination.
She sits in the passenger seat with the window cracked, her dark hair lifting in the breeze as the Wyoming landscape rolls past us.
She is wearing the same pair of denim cutoffs she wore the day we were working on the bunk beds, a gray Texas Prison Rodeo T-shirt, and a pair of black calf-high cowgirl boots.
Every so often, she turns and catches me looking. “What?”
“Nothing. Just enjoying the scenery.”
She glances out the windshield. “The scenery is in front of you.”
“I know.”
The corner of her mouth lifts.
By the time we turn off the highway onto a narrow, rutted road that disappears into the trees, I’m glad I made time to bring her out here.
Because there’s no way in hell I’d have been comfortable letting her come out to this location alone.
The road winds through the woods before opening into a small clearing. A weathered trailer sits tucked among the trees, its rotting wooden porch crowded with potted plants and whatever odds and ends have accumulated there over the years.
And parked in the tall, dead grass is the truck.
A 2000 Ford F-150.
It’s an extended cab pickup with faded gray paint and a strip of red running along the lower body.
The chrome grille is dull but still intact, the rectangular headlights yellowed with age.
A black bug deflector stretches across the hood, and the front bumper has taken its share of abuse.
The tires look like they’ve seen better days, and the truck sits slightly crooked in the uneven yard.
But underneath all the age and neglect, I can see why somebody might want it. It’s an old Ford. Those things can run damn near forever if somebody takes care of them.
The problem is, I’m not sure anybody has taken care of this one.
A big, burly man with wild yellow-gray hair and a full beard comes around the side of the trailer.
He’s wearing a dingy T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, his beer belly hanging out beneath the hem. His jeans are stained, and he wipes his hands on them as he walks toward us.
“You here for the Ford?” he asks hoarsely.
“That’s us,” I say.
He jerks his chin toward the truck. “Two grand. Got two hundred thousand on her.”
I look at the F-150 again. “Anything wrong with it?”
“Runs.”
Not exactly the answer I was looking for.
“AC don’t work no more. Neither does the radio.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key ring, and tosses it to me. “Fire it up. Look under the hood. Check whatever you want.”
I catch the keys.
Then he points toward the trailer. “Knock on the door when you’re done.”
And just like that, he turns around and heads inside.
Marina stares after him.
I look down at the keys. Then back at her and shake my head.
“He’s trusting,” she mutters.
I unlock the Ford and climb inside.
The driver’s seat is worn to the springs, the fabric deteriorating from years of use. The steering wheel’s black leather is faded in spots, and the dashboard has a few cracks running through it. The cab smells like stale beer, old cigarette smoke, and something I can’t quite identify.
Marina leans through the open passenger door. “Oh God.”
I look at her. “You’re gonna want to breathe through your mouth,” I warn.
I turn the key. The engine grinds a couple of times, sputters, then finally rumbles to life. I let it idle for a minute, listening.
It doesn’t sound terrible. That’s something.
I shut it off, climb out, and pop the hood. The engine bay is dusty and grimy, but again, I’ve seen worse. I check the oil. Look over the belts and hoses. Check the battery cable for corrosion. Look for leaks and wiggle a couple of connections.
Nothing immediately jumps out at me.
I lower the hood and walk around the truck.
I check the body panels. Look underneath as best I can. Examine the wheel wells and the frame. Then I kick each tire.
Marina follows, watching me. “Well?”
“Sounds okay.” I glance at her. “And a well-maintained F-150 can usually push to around three hundred thousand miles.”
Her face brightens. “So … it’s a possibility?”
I look over the bed.
The faded gray paint is scarred and weathered. There’s rust around the edges, leaves and debris gathered in the corners, and enough junk scattered in the bed to make me wonder how long it’s been since anybody actually used it for hauling anything.
Then I look back at her. “A well-maintained F-150,” I repeat.
Her face falls. “So, that’s a no.”
“I didn’t say no.”
She points at me. “You made a face.”
I chuckle. “At two grand, it’s not out of the running. But I’d like to ask around and see if I can find some others for you to look at before you spend the money on this one.”
She looks back at the truck.
I can tell she’s disappointed, but she nods.
“Okay. I’m not exactly in love with this one. The pictures made it look a hell of a lot better than it does in person.”
I step closer. “And if we don’t find you something else in better condition for around the same price, I’ll bring you back here.” I nod toward the trailer. “To the site of Deliverance.”
She stares at me for a second. Then sticks her tongue out.
I bark out a laugh. “Maybe I can try to talk him down from two grand.”
She turns toward the truck. “God, I was hoping this was gonna be a lucky find.”
We return the keys and head back toward Wildhaven.
A few miles down the road, I spot a used car lot.
I slow down.
Marina looks over at me. “What are you doing?”
“Comparison shopping.”
Her smile comes easy this time.
And I turn us into the lot.
***
We’re back in my truck with the doors shut and the air conditioner blowing when Marina lets out a long breath.
“Well,” she says, staring through the windshield, “those were definitely nicer.”
I glance over at her. “Much nicer.”
“They were also more than two thousand dollars.”
“Little bit.”
“A lotta bit.”
We looked at a couple of pre-owned trucks, and while neither one was exactly what she needed, they were a hell of a lot cleaner than the F-150 in Moran. No rust crawling up the body. No mystery trash in the beds. No rancid smell embedded in the upholstery.
But they were closer to five grand than two.
Marina drums her fingers against her thigh. “I think I’m just going to wait,” she says. “See if the condo sells soon. If it does, I’ll have a little more to work with.”
“That’s probably smart.”
She nods. “I can manage until then.”
“You can borrow my truck anytime you need it.”
Her head turns toward me. “Royce—”
“I mean it. I rarely leave the ranch. You can use it to haul little man to and from wherever, and I’ll leave a key with you when I go back on the road in August.”
“I appreciate that,” she says. “Thank you.”
A small smile touches her mouth.
I nod and look back through the windshield.
She’s quiet for a moment.
Then she says, “I’m just not used to relying on anyone.”
Something about the way she says it makes me turn toward her.
“Nothing wrong with accepting help from others,” I say.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always just handled things myself.”
I study her for a second.
Then the question I’ve been carrying around since she came back into my orbit slips out before I can talk myself out of it. “What exactly happened between you and Blaze?”
Her gaze drops.
I know he left. I know he’s a total slimeball.
But for some reason, I want the details.
And now that I have her here—alone with me in the cab of my truck, the world outside reduced to the quiet hum of the engine—the moment feels intimate somehow. Like maybe she might actually open up.
She sits beside me with one leg tucked underneath her, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the windshield. “I guess I just stopped being the person he wanted.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“What?”
She gives me a small, humorless smile. “After Ryder was born”—her fingers pick at the frayed edge of her shorts—“he didn’t see me anymore. It was like Marina no longer existed and I was just somebody’s mom.”
I stare at her. “Are you fucking serious?”
She nods.
I actually laugh because that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. “That’s a load of horseshit.”
Her eyes flick toward mine. “It’s true. He used to tell me how sexy I was. How he loved watching me ride. I was this badass rodeo queen he found superhot.”
“And then you had his kid, and suddenly, you stopped being those things?” I ask incredulously.
She shrugs, but I can see the hurt underneath it.
“I guess so. In his eyes.”
Geezus.
I look at her, trying to wrap my head around it. I remember her from five years ago. Hell, I remember her from today. Sexy doesn’t even begin to cover it.
But it’s not just that.
Marina’s funny. Sharp. Talented. She has this easy confidence that draws people toward her, even when she doesn’t seem to realize she’s doing it.
And every time I’ve seen her with Ryder, I’ve watched her light up around that little boy. She’s a good momma. A damn good one. I can’t understand how any man could look at her and not see how fucking special she is.
Especially the man who got lucky enough to have her carry his child.
She exhales and draws her knees up, resting her chin on them before turning her face toward me. “Just somebody’s mom,” she murmurs.
I shake my head. “No.”
Her brows pull together. “No?”
“You’re the mother of his child.”
She watches me.
“You grew a piece of him inside your body, for fuck’s sake.”
Her eyes soften.
I keep going because, apparently, somebody needs to tell her what the hell Blaze Cassel should’ve been smart enough to figure out himself.
“And that makes you more badass, not less.”
Her lips part.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the steering wheel. “You didn’t stop being the woman you were before. You became the woman who brought his kid into the world. Gave him that gift.”
I glance toward the road, remembering Ryder skipping ahead of us toward the cabin, that oversize cowboy hat bouncing on his head. I can still hear him and Ruby squealing as they hopped around in the sprinkler, their excited voices carrying across the yard.
“And from what I’ve seen, you’re damn good at being his momma.”
When I look back at her, her eyes are shining.
I lower my voice. “So, don’t you ever let some dumbass make you believe being a mother somehow erased the woman you were before.”
A tiny smile tugs at her mouth. “You really think I’m badass?”
I grin. “I know you’re badass.”
Her smile grows.
I let my eyes move over her face. “A fucking gorgeous badass.”
She laughs softly, wiping beneath one eye.
The sound settles something deep in my chest. Because five years ago, I thought Marina was beautiful. Tonight, I’m starting to realize beautiful doesn’t even scratch the surface.