Cowboy Comes Home. Carrie Alexander

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      “Yours was hard to take, too. In a different way.”

      He waited, but that was all she’d say. Typical.

      “It may get worse, you know, if I’m published.”

      “Rio.” The way she said his name was like a scolding. “Please reconsider.”

      “Why? You said it yourself. I’m on my own again. Free and independent. I’ve accepted my birthright—or lack of one. Do you want me to be ashamed of who I am?”

      This was the closest he’d ever come to stating the bald truth to her face. He twisted in the leatherette booth, bringing his fist down on the table with more force than he’d meant to. The crockery rattled. He quickly quieted it. “For chrissake, Ma, this is a new century. There’s no real stigma to—”

      “That’s enough.” Color flamed his mother’s face. “Can’t you write this thing without naming names? Anonymous.”

      “This thing?” He hadn’t expected her to understand his compelling need to write his story, to leach the poison out, but he’d hoped that she’d be proud of the accomplishment, at least.

      “The book,” she said heavily.

      “It’s a memoir.”

      Her gaze slid away. “Authors use pen names. It’s not unusual.”

      He forced a negligent shrug. The blog had been written under nicknames—pseudonyms, of a sort—to protect the careers of the soldiers. It wasn’t required that he use his own name. His agent, however, had told him that being open to the publicity would be highly beneficial. As well, verification would be required.

      Verification of the truth. A truth that would devastate several people who deserved it, but also his mother. Maybe even Meg, for all that she’d put on a good front of not caring what others thought of her.

      “I’m thinking about it,” he conceded. “Or who knows? The memoir may not pan out.” He wasn’t even sure he could write a book in the first place.

      “What about fiction?”

      “I don’t think so.” There’d already been enough fiction in his life. His mother had accepted it, even perpetuated it. He wasn’t as willing.

      “What does she say?”

      “Meg and I haven’t discussed it. She doesn’t know that I’m writing a book.”

      “That won’t last, not in Treetop.”

      “We’ll see. The ranch is isolated. She doesn’t seem to have much to do with the townspeople.”

      “Like her father.”

      Rio had never thought of Meg as antisocial. But she wasn’t an ordinary girl, either. She was hard to know, difficult to get along with. Except when it came to the two of them, relating one-on-one. Their friendship had deep roots. The love was more complicated, especially after she’d rejected him the last time.

      The real last time, he’d decided then, as she skipped town with another guy. That resolution had been easier to keep with thousands of miles between them.

      Now, she was already working her way under his skin, into his blood. The old desires were tugging at him.

      But, no, he wouldn’t take her back. Not again. Even in the unlikely event that she offered. If nothing else, the memoir would prevent that.

      “I don’t trust her,” Virginia went on. “She’ll get you into trouble. Again.”

      “I’m responsible for my own actions, Ma.”

      Virginia gave an inelegant snort. “Responsible for hers, too.”

      “Her name is Meg. You used to like her, or at least you tried to befriend her.”

      “She was young then. A skinny child with no mother, growing up practically wild. I felt sorry for her.”

      “That didn’t change just because she got older.” Older, but also tougher, wilder, even more daring. Sometimes, she’d scared even Rio.

      Primarily, she’d confused him. He’d been dealing with his own adolescent turmoil. He hadn’t been equipped to handle the strange new way that Meg made him feel, with her ripening body and her growing awareness of how boys, even men, reacted to her.

      Virginia was still fretting. “She’ll be a distraction for you.”

      Rio looked out the window. Sure enough. A charge went through him at the mere sight of Meg.

      “There she is now.”

      His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Speak of the devil.”

      Meg was across the street in the Food King parking lot. She loaded grocery bags into her trunk, her jacket hanging open and a long red scarf tied loosely around her neck. The wind caught at her hair, making his heart leap. Memories.

      Good intentions…

      “I’m going to help her.” He stood and pulled out his wallet. “Why don’t you come over and say hi. Meg asked after you.”

      Virginia’s mouth was drawn. “I’ll finish my coffee.”

      “Give me five minutes.” He loped across Range Street, the two-lane road that was Treetop’s main thoroughfare. The cold was biting. “Meg! Hold up.”

      “Hey, Rio,” she said with a natural ease that was a big improvement over the previous day’s tension. She brushed her hair aside. “Morning.”

      He pulled up, grabbed one of the remaining bags and set it in the back of her car. “Planning to feed an army?”

      “Nope. Only you.” Her smile was a sun flickering behind clouds. “I remember how you used to eat. Like a voracious army, leaving no flapjack unturned.”

      He looked into the next bag. A giant sack of green beans and a frozen apple pie. “Mmm, lunch. You’ll be sorry you hired me.”

      She became brisk, shoving the last bag at him and rolling away the cart. “I’m already sorry, but not for that.”

      “What? Why?”

      “It’s—” She squinted. “Just second thoughts. Is that your mother?”

      Virginia clearly sat in the diner window, her face a pale oval behind the dark glass. Looming large across the building’s low eaves the retro sign in tall turquoise letters spelled out EDNA’S. “We were having breakfast.”

      Meg waved. After a moment, Virginia lifted her hand.

      “You know what’s funny? I haven’t run into your mother since I’ve been back.” Meg slanted a look at him. “But I suppose I haven’t been off the ranch a whole lot.”

      “Neither has she. You’re both homebodies.” He gritted his teeth. His СКАЧАТЬ