Say You'll Stay and Marry Me
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Patti Standard
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Chapter 1
Sara Shepherd slammed the door and walked to the front of the truck, gravel crunching under her tennis shoes. She pushed sweaty bangs off her forehead with an exasperated. shove as she watched steam hiss its way around the edge of the hood, the white wisps of vapor evaporating instantly in the dry Wyoming air. Gingerly, using the hem of her yellow T-shirt to protect her hand from the hot metal, she pulled the latch and lifted the hood. Steam billowed out, an antifreeze cloud escaping from a gash in a rubber hose connected to the radiator.
Sara cursed softly, using language her English professor husband would have dismissed as a sign of an inadequate vocabulary if he’d still been alive. That her dilemma was her fault only added to her frustration. She’d thought about buying extra belts and hoses before she left Denver last week, but had decided against it since the truck was only two years old. Leaving the hood propped open, she walked to the cab, stepped onto the running board and stuck her head in the window to look at the odometer.
Sixty-three thousand two hundred and fifty-eight miles—plus some odd tenths.
In two years.
Sara felt a combination of pride and dismay at the thought of all those miles, hard, compulsive, seldom-stopping miles from Canada to Mexico, east coast to west. And so many miles still ahead of her. She dropped to the ground and carefully tucked the edge of her T-shirt into her jeans. She surveyed the empty asphalt that snaked in both directions before disappearing in a shimmering haze of heat at the horizon. Not a car in sight.
Wyoming surrounded her, desolate, with only sparse grass and sagebrush corralled behind the miles of barbed wire fence that edged the narrow, two-lane highway. A stray gust of wind brought a windmill creaking to life behind her, forcing its rusted blades to make a desultory turn, movement enough to shake its weathered wooden frame all the way to the ground but not enough to raise so much as a drop of water to fill the empty stock tank at its base. Just looking at the alkali deposit that ringed the tank made her thirsty. She licked her lips as she tried to decide what to do.
A well-worn rut cut off the highway and crisscrossed its way to the distant mountains. It looked tempting, especially since Yellowstone National Park lay behind those mountains. She’d planned to reach Yellowstone sometime tomorrow after spending the night in Jackson Hole. But she knew that rut could just as easily peter out at some gully as lead to a house and telephone. Better to backtrack to that gas station she’d passed, Sara decided, hoping it was only a few miles back.
She took a long drink from the thermos in the cab, then grabbed her credit card and driver’s license from her purse and stuffed the leather purse under the seat. She locked the truck’s doors, double-checking that the door to the white camper covering its bed—her home for the past two years—was also securely locked. She started down the road, the asphalt under her feet soft from the afternoon sun, well aware that she left her entire life’s possessions behind her.
The little gas station was closer than she remembered. It sat at the junction of two rural highways, alone except for a big white farmhouse ringed by shady cottonwood trees about a hundred yards behind the station. It was little more than a wide spot in the road, but the station’s neat white siding and green shutters looked wonderful after a forty-minute walk. Two gas pumps squatted on a paved mat, sharing space with rainbow oil slicks and a pothole or two. The door to an attached garage yawned wide, and she could see a hydraulic lift inside, workbenches stacked with tools and thankfully, a collection of belts and hoses on hooks near the ceiling. She should be on her way to Yellowstone in a few hours, after all.
She pushed open the glass door to the station and set a bell jangling somewhere inside. A boy, perched on a stool behind the counter, looked up from his comic book at the sound. Maybe twelve or thirteen, he had an open, friendly face with freckles and a slight overbite that braces were trying to correct.
“Hi. I didn’t hear your car.”
“I’m on foot,” Sara told him. “My truck’s about two miles up the road with a blown water hose. I was hoping you could help me out.”
“What year?” He dragged a dog-eared book from a shelf over the cash register and flipped it open on the scarred countertop.
She told him and described the location of the hose—by now she knew her truck intimately, inside and out. The boy thumbed through the pages, stopped at one, then followed a line of type across the page with his finger.
“Bingo! We’ve got one of those.”
“Great.” She relaxed and smiled with relief. She’d stubbornly tried to ignore her nervousness as she’d walked to the station. It hadn’t helped that her daughter’s warnings had come so easily to mind, keeping her company with each step. I told you so, the voice had said. A grown woman driving around the country like some middle-aged hippy. It’s just not safe, Mother. And her mind had spun out the word mother in a perfect mimic of Laura, in that exasperated and exasperating tone her daughter had adopted since graduating from college.
Sara had only broken down once before, and it had been a simple flat tire. But she would think seriously about trading in her faithful blue truck for a new model when she passed through Denver this fall. A breakdown in the winter was something she didn’t even want to contemplate.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll use your rest room for a minute while you ring that up. Add a bottle of that orange juice, too. It’s going to be a hot walk back.” She pointed to a cooler against the wall filled with drinks.
The boy’s mouth fell open slightly, revealing even more of the braces. “You’re going to walk to your truck?”
“I guess so.” Sara smiled. “I didn’t pass many taxis on my way here.”
“But you’re not going to fix it yourself,” he protested.
“Sure I am. I’m pretty handy with a screwdriver. It shouldn’t be hard.”
He shook his head, adamant. “You can’t walk all that way alone.” He sounded truly concerned, and Sara was touched.
“It’s not that far.” She gave him another reassuring smile.
But he kept shaking his head, and fine brown hair sifted into his eyes. “If my dad found out I let a woman walk off alone to fix a truck by herself, I’d be mucking stalls for a month. No, ma’am, you better wait here while I go get my dad. He’ll drive you back.”
“No, really, I’ll—”
But he seemed determined. “You wait right here, ma’am. I’ll go fetch my dad. He’s up in the north field fixing some fence so it might be a minute or two. You just make yourself comfortable. Have that orange juice. I’ll be right back.”
He locked the register, grabbed a hat from a hook near the door and disappeared into the attached garage. Sara heard the roar of an engine and looked out the door. The boy had appeared in front of the station riding a three-wheeled motorcycle, a sturdy all-terrain vehicle with heavy, wide tires. He gestured to her and she pulled open the glass door and stepped outside.
“If anybody comes wanting to buy gas, you better have ’em wait for me to get back,” he yelled over the engine. “There’s not another gas station for forty miles, so they’re not going anywhere.” With a metallic grin and wave, he skidded around the side of the station and disappeared.
Sara rounded the corner after him and watched him head up a gravel lane toward the house. She had to smile at the sight of the boy, in jeans, cowboy hat and scuffed boots—every inch a cowboy—seated on the noisy machine as comfortably as on a horse. S-shaped irrigating tubes and a muddy shovel were strapped to the back of the ATV, bouncing at every rut.
Modern ranching. All helicopters and three-wheelers and million-dollar equipment. Not like when she was a kid growing up on a small farm on the outskirts of Denver, she thought with a twinge of nostalgia, when Denver still had traces of the real, honest-to-goodness cow town it used to be. Denver certainly had its share of cowboys even now, but that had more to do with fashion than with livelihood. She knew most of the Wranglers she saw had never touched a saddle.
Sara got a juice from the cooler and returned to the wooden bench that ran along the side of the station. She stretched out her legs to wait for her rescuer. It appeared chivalry wasn’t dead, after all, she thought, taking a sip of the cold juice. Or at least not up here in the middle of Wyoming. Maybe there was still a sliver left of that famous cowboy code of the West. In spite of the ATV, the whole place seemed to be caught in some kind of 1950s time warp. She fanned aside a fly that buzzed lazily near her ear. The big old farmhouse, with its wide veranda just made for a porch swing and its huge swath of lawn, complete with shaggy lilac bushes, looked like something out of an old black-and-white western.
A memory drifted up, nudged to life by the Hollywood setting. Goodness, she hadn’t thought of that endless summer in years. She’d been thirteen, horse crazy like all her friends, and for some reason she’d taken to reading Zane Grey books. She’d read every one, staying up long into the night when the house was as dark and silent as the heroes Grey wrote about. That teenage Sara had decided the long, lean, slow-talking cowboy was her kind of man. The hero was the same in every one of those classic westerns—concerned about his horse, concerned about his honor and devoted to his one true love. He never spoke more than a word or two to that true love throughout the book, but Sara had read volumes into the way he’d rolled his cigarette or the way he’d squinted into the horizon.
Sara squinted at the figure she saw appear from behind the ranchhouse, a horse and rider trotting down the lane toward her—her imaginary cowboy come to life. A man on a black horse, a man who sat in the saddle like he’d been born to it, a man with spurs, she saw as he reined to a stop in front of her and jumped to the ground with a jingle. Faded jeans, cracked leather belt, denim work shirt rolled back from his wrists, dark brown hair curling from underneath a dusty gray cowboy hat, face hidden by its brim—Zane couldn’t have done better himself.
“Mac Wallace,” he said, striding toward her. He slipped off a leather work glove and extended his hand.
“Sara Shepherd,” she replied, noting the calluses as his big hand swallowed hers. Mac Wallace was several inches taller than she, and she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes, midnight blue eyes with intriguing lines fanning from the corners, testimony to years of outdoor work. Now that his hat no longer shadowed his deeply tanned face, she could see thick eyebrows, broad cheekbones, a square chin and the beginnings of an afternoon stubble. She breathed in the smell of horse and man sweat and was reminded once again of childhood summers.
“I hear you’re having trouble with a water hose.”
Sara nodded. “I told your son I could handle it, but he was kind enough to offer some help. I don’t want to take you away from your work if you’re—”
“No problem. We’ll have you back on the road in no time.”
The sound of the ATV returning caused the gelding to shy, and Mac quickly stepped back to grab the reins. “Damn machines. I hate them.”
He soothed the horse with one hand while he made an impatient slicing motion with a finger across his throat. His son immediately cut the engine and coasted the rest of the way to the station to join them.
“Michael, take Justice to his stall and have your brother rub him down. I’m going to go fix Ms. Shepherd’s truck.” As the boy obediently swung into the saddle, Mac turned to Sara. “Do you have any water to refill the radiator?”
Sara nodded. “Five gallons.”
“Antifreeze?”
She shook her head. “I better get a gallon or I’ll overheat in the mountains for sure.”
He escorted her inside the station, and she pulled her credit card from the back pocket of her jeans and laid it on the counter. Mac punched buttons on the cash register and handed her the receipt the machine spit out. She scribbled her signature.
“My truck’s out front next to the mailbox,” he said. “I’ll get that hose and meet you there.” He disappeared into the garage.
Sara looked at the receipt as she walked past the gas pumps to the gray truck parked beside the mailbox at the edge of the highway. She frowned.
“Mr. Wallace?” she began as he came toward her, minus the spurs but with a gallon of antifreeze in one hand and a black rubber hose in the other.
“Mac,” he corrected, throwing them in the back of the truck and moving to open the door for her.
“Mac. This receipt doesn’t show a charge for your repair service. Or the orange juice, either.” He was very close. He stood beside her with a hand on the open door, his arm making a protective circle. Sara looked up from the receipt and was startled to find herself acutely, unexpectedly aware of the breadth of him, the warmth, the masculine, horsey smell. She felt a ridiculous urge to move closer into that circle. How long had it been since she’d stood, even casually, this near a man? Disturbed, she held out the white piece of paper.
But he didn’t even glance at it. His eyes met hers. “There’s no charge for being neighborly, ma’am.”
“I thought making a profit from another’s misfortune was the American way. And it’s Sara.”
“Well—Sara—that might be, but it’s not my way.”
She cocked her head and studied him, curious. Yet another example of cowboy chivalry, that fabled code? Finally, she said, “Then I thank you very much.”
“My pleasure.”
She found herself reluctant to look away from those dark, dark blue eyes. The moment lengthened, lasted for a heartbeat longer than it should have, that split second between a man and a woman when a look slides over the edge toward awareness. She was so aware of Mac Wallace she felt heat on her face and knew it came from more than the Wyoming sun. Embarrassed by her reaction, she folded the slip of paper, turning it again and again into neat squares, methodically creasing the edges, then tucked it into her pocket Eyes lowered, she quickly stepped into the truck.
Mac shut the door and crossed behind the truck to the driver’s side, smiling at the blush that had tinged the woman’s cheeks, accenting her delicate features. He might spend his days surrounded by kids, cows and sweat-soaked leather, but he could still recognize healthy attraction in a woman’s eyes when he saw it. Damn right. He pulled taut the blanket that covered the worn spot on the seat and slid behind the wheel.
“My truck’s a couple of miles up that way.” Sara pointed north.
“Headed for Yellowstone?” he asked as he turned onto the highway.
“Yes, I’m going to spend a few days there.”
“Are you staying at the lodge? It’s quite a place.” He had spent his honeymoon there. A wonderful beginning to a dismal marriage.
Sara shook her head. “I’ve got a camper on my truck. But I do want to see the lodge. I’ve seen pictures of it and it looks charming.”
Mac took his eyes from the road and looked at her more closely, wondering why a woman would choose to camp alone in Yellowstone. Especially a woman who used words like charming. He studied her profile as she watched the passing sagebrush from the window. She looked a couple years younger than his forty-five, and no makeup and the way her light brown hair was pulled into a ponytail made her appear younger still. Her features were fine, with an aquiline nose and high cheekbones that spoke of afternoon teas and painted china. Charming. Her patrician features were at odds with her jeans and tennis shoes, and he noted the way the tan on her left arm was more pronounced than on her right, typical of someone who spent a lot of time driving with an arm propped on an open window. Contradictions intrigued Mac.
“Are you from around here?” he asked.
“No, I’m from—” Sara hesitated, intriguing him even more. “I’m originally from Denver,” she finished.
“You’re not so far from home, then,” he said.
“Not yet.”
Her cryptic reply had him glancing at her again, and he found himself caught by the clouds he saw in eyes a misty shade of gray. “So you’re going farther than just Yellowstone?”
She nodded. “I’ll probably head into Canada, I think. I want to see Banff, even though it’s supposed to be so commercialized now. Then maybe Calgary.” She shrugged. “I’m not really sure yet.”
“You’re not sure where you’re going?” He frowned. “You mean you’re just...traveling?”
“Just traveling.”
Mac could tell his questions made her nervous. She seemed relieved when her truck came into view.
“There it is.”
He pulled behind the late-model, four-wheel-drive truck and camper. Sara jumped from his truck before he had time to open the door for her. Pulling a key ring from her pocket, she unlocked the door to the camper and unfolded a set of aluminum stairs. “I’ll get that water,” she said over her shoulder.
Mac peered into the camper through the open door. The compact space had a table and padded bench under one window and a tiny kitchen on the other side—although he wasn’t sure he would call a sink the size of his cereal bowl, a shoe-box-size refrigerator and a two-burner stove exactly a kitchen. A mattress covered with a floral-print spread was tucked over the cab, and closets and storage bays cunningly crammed every spare inch. Like the inside of a doll house, everything was neat as a pin, almost clinically so, from the wrinkle-free bedspread to the paper towel roll with a perfectly torn edge centered on the wall above a miniature cutting board.
“Quite a setup you’ve got here,” he said as Sara pulled a five-gallon water jug from a cupboard under the stove. He took the heavy container from her and helped her down the stairs.
“Everything I need.”
“A little small, though.”
“I prefer to think of it as cozy.”
“Cozy like a turtle, maybe.”
Sara laughed, and the sound was enough to stop him in his tracks. He looked at her, captivated again by her dove gray eyes, alight with humor.
“I guess it is,” she said. “I’ve never quite thought of it that way. I just carry my home around with me wherever I go—like a turtle.”
“I wouldn’t call it exactly a home, would you? More like a hotel room. But it must be pretty convenient when you’re on the road.” He saw her smile fade and wondered. He started walking and set the water in front of the truck. “Let me get my toolbox and we’ll start in.”
Not a home? Sara patted the blue metal fender well protectively. It was the perfect home, as far as she was concerned. A thousand times more home than the neat brick house near the university where she’d lived for twenty years with her husband. Those bricks had formed walls so high they’d blocked her sun, cut off her air, made her fear they would tumble in on her at any moment, trapping her in the debris. But this, the metal under her hand warm and smooth, this truck and camper were freedom—and all the home she ever planned to have again.
She watched while Mac deftly removed the clamps, pried off the torn hose and slipped the new one in place. He filled the radiator with antifreeze and water and screwed the radiator cap tight.
“All set. Why don’t you start ’er up, Sara, and let’s make sure that new hose is going to do the trick.”
Sara turned the key and the engine roared instantly to life. She smiled in satisfaction.
“Uh-oh.” Her satisfaction was short-lived as she heard Mac’s warning over the rumble of the engine.
“What’s the matter?” She got out to stand beside Mac and stuck her head under the hood next to his. Her ponytail fell over her shoulder as she looked at the engine, the heavy-sweet smell of antifreeze making her wrinkle her nose. She followed his pointing finger and saw a small drop of water form along the bottom of a hose to the left of the radiator. The drop fattened, stretched, then fell to the ground. Another followed and another, making beads in the dust before collapsing to soak into the dirt.
“Maybe you spilled some water when you filled the radiator, and it’s just running down that hose?” she asked hopefully.
But he shook his head. “It’s another leak. You’ve probably had it a while and didn’t even know it. You better drive to the station and I’ll replace that hose, too. In fact, you ought to change out all your hoses if you’re headed clear to Canada.”
Sara sighed and nodded. “You’re right.” She felt her teeth begin to worry the inside of her cheek and forced herself to stop the nervous habit. Another hour or so didn’t make any difference. She’d still make Jackson in time to get a spot in a park, although it might be difficult this close to Yellowstone on a Friday evening in the middle of June. Well, she’d worry about it when she got there. If nothing else, two years on the road had given her a nonlinear perspective of time. Yesterdays and tomorrows tended to blend together. Straightening, she removed the metal rod and let the hood slam into place.
“I’ll meet you at the station then,” she said briskly.
“I’ll be right behind you.” Mac started for his truck and she allowed herself a moment to watch him while his back was to her, to appreciate the way he moved, confident and purposeful, with long strides that stretched his faded jeans in interesting ways around his hips.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, she chided herself. Ogling the man like some sex-starved, premenopausal old woman. She shook her head at her thoughts and climbed behind the wheel, reminding herself that with a ranch and two sons—maybe more—there was sure to be a wife in a gingham apron somewhere inside that big white house.
Sara reached under the seat and pulled out her purse. She set it in its customary place, precisely in the middle of the bench seat between the seat belt fasteners. Then she adjusted the side mirrors and tilted the rearview mirror a minuscule degree. Her thumb brushed over the lighted radio panel to remove the slight film of dust that had accumulated during her drive north from Rock Springs.
There.
Perfect.
She slipped the truck into gear and guided it onto the highway, heading back the way she’d come.
A half hour later, Mac was tightening the last clamp. Sara watched from where she sat on the cool concrete floor, her back against the leg of a splintered workbench. He’d raised the truck on the hydraulic lift to reach an awkward hose and was standing under the engine, arms above his head. His work shirt was pulled tight across his back, the denim worn thin enough that she could see the outline of his muscles as they bunched and flexed in his shoulders. His biceps swelled with every twist of his wrist, and she stared, fascinated by the masculine rhythm.
The loud jingle of the station door opening made her blink, and she dragged her eyes away from their voyeuristic study. “It’s, uh, it’s pretty busy around here,” she said. The bell had signaled a customer several times already, keeping Michael running between the pumps and the cash register.
“Weekends are good.”
She saw Michael head out to check the oil on a red minivan. “Michael’s certainly working hard. Do you have other children that help?”
“Jacob’s up at the ranch right now.” Mac muttered a quick curse as he tried to reach into a tight space.
“It must be tough to manage a ranch and a gas station at the same time,” Sara said. Talk was better than silence, she’d decided, considering where silence seemed to lead her thoughts.
“It’s not too bad. We only open the station in the summer—for the tourists. It’s a way for the boys to earn college money.” His voice echoed hollowly from inside the engine. “During the winter, we use the garage to repair the ranch equipment and store our fuel in the tanks. It beats running in to Dutch Creek every time you need gas.”
“You’re a long way from anywhere, all right.” She shifted on the floor, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them.
“Sometimes too far.” He let out a puff of held breath as he gave a last twist to the screwdriver. “Sometimes not far enough.” He ducked his head and peered at her. “Hey, Sara, bring me a soda from the cooler, will you? And get something for yourself if you want.”
She got up and dusted off the seat of her jeans. “I still owe you for the last one.”
“I told you, it’s on the house.”
“Not this time. And not for your work this time, either. I expect a hefty bill for all this.”
Mac lowered his arms and grinned at her as he wiped his hands on a rag. “I’ll get out my adding machine.”
She went through the open door into the gas station, the whining of the lowering lift audible as she pulled open the foggy glass front to the soda case. “What kind does your dad like?” she asked Michael, who was at the cash register.
Before he could answer, Mac’s shout ricocheted from the garage, followed by an ominous thud—then silence. Her eyes met the startled boy’s. He sprang to his feet at the same time she turned, and together they raced into the garage.
“Mac?”
“Dad?”
Her truck was in the middle of the floor, innocently resting on its four wheels, but Mac was nowhere in sight.
“Mac?” Sara called again.
She rounded the truck, Michael at her heels, so close that he bumped into her when she stopped abruptly. Mac half-sat, half-lay on the cement, propped on his elbows, staring at his leg, his face pasty white. Sara’s stomach did a flip as her gaze followed his and she saw the way his boot twisted outward at an unnatural angle.
He looked at her with a small, rueful smile. “It looks like this is going to be an expensive job for me, too.”
