Homeward Bound. Marin Thomas

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      “You kept the hat,” she whispered around the lump clogging her throat.

      As if noticing the imperfection for the first time, he smoothed his thumb over the mark.

      “I ruined the Stetson.” Because you ruined my plans to elope with Buddy. Thank goodness Royce had. A marriage to the hometown bad-boy would have ended in disaster. Last she heard, Buddy was doing time in the Huntsville prison for armed robbery.

      The lines around his Royce’s eyes crinkled. “Only a fool would toss away a perfectly good hat because of a minor scratch.”

      An ache filled her chest. “Minor? I slashed the thing with a pocketknife.” She hadn’t known if she or Royce had been more stunned by the vengeful act.

      “Yeah, you were full of piss and vinegar that evening.”

      She’d been thankful the moonless night had concealed the tears in her eyes as she’d struggled to find the words to apologize. Words she’d never found the courage to speak. Half of her had hoped she’d finally succeeded in driving Royce away. The other half had prayed he wouldn’t give up on her.

      When he shoved his fingers through a tuft of thick, reddish brown hair, the fluorescent lights in the ceiling highlighted a splash of silver along his temples.

      “You’ve got gray hair,” she blurted.

      The corners of his mouth lifted in amusement. “Your name is on every one of them.”

      Her name and those of the rest of the good folks in Nowhere. Apparently, being rancher, mayor and saver of lost souls was taking a toll on the thirty-two-year-old.

      The longer she studied him, the more she saw beyond his don’t-mess-with-me expression. The rumpled state of his clothes reflected the long drive to the university. The tight lines around his mouth hinted at fatigue, not anger. She suspected a headache, not frustration, created the furrow in the middle of his brow. And exasperation didn’t deepen the brown of his eyes—the dusky rings beneath them did.

      Forbidding and unapproachable—not today. Exhausted and troubled—yes. But how could that be? Royce McKinnon had always been unshakable.

      He checked his watch. “Can we talk in private?”

      “I get off in fifteen minutes.”

      “I’ll wait outside.” He headed for the front door.

      An uneasy feeling skittered down her spine as she watched his retreating back. Shoving the sensation aside, she hurried to the snack table to help Mrs. Richards quickly clean up the mess.

      A short time later she sat in the front seat of Royce’s big Dodge truck as he drove through the small campus side streets toward the rental house she shared with two roommates.

      Royce hadn’t said a word since he’d pulled out of the day-care parking lot. His silence bothered her more than the country music blasting from the CD player. He’d never been a talkative man…unless he was firing off one of his lectures on taking responsibility for one’s own actions and other such drivel. She’d never given much consideration to his quiet nature, but right now she’d kill to know what was going on in that brooding mind of his.

      Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. The clean crisp scent of his cologne wrapped around her like a warm hug, bringing with it a flash from the past: his mouth hovering over hers as they struggled to catch their breath.

      Royce turned the corner and drove south on Conner Avenue, where most of the homes on the street were university rentals. She pointed out the windshield. “The bright yellow one.” He parked at the curb in front of the house.

      “What are those guys doing on your property?” he asked, referring to the two males sitting in rocking chairs, drinking beer on the porch.

      “‘Those guys’ are my roommates.”

      “Roommates?”

      His jaw worked as if he’d gotten a six-inch piece of rawhide caught between his teeth.

      She hustled out of the truck and shut the door, cutting Royce off in mid sputter. Taking a deep breath, she marched up the sidewalk, determined to act like an adult even if he couldn’t. A chorus of “Hey, Heather” greeted her as she climbed the porch steps. Ignoring Royce’s hot breath fanning the back of her neck, she handled the introductions. “Seth, Joe, meet Royce McKinnon. He’s the mayor of Nowhere, Texas.”

      “Cool,” the two grunted in unison. Neither student stood or offered a hand in greeting. No one had ever accused Heather’s roommates of having too much on the ball.

      “Follow me,” she muttered, moving across the porch. Once inside, she veered right, through a pair of French doors. “It’s a two-bedroom house, but I converted the front parlor into a third bedroom.” She set her purse on the chair in the corner.

      Royce stopped in the doorway and glanced around. He cleared his throat. “Do you mind?” Without waiting for an answer, he stepped farther into the room and shut the door.

      She held her breath as his hand hovered over the door-knob. She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when his large masculine fingers fell away without securing the lock.

      Shoving his fists into the front pockets of his jeans, he rocked back on his heels. The stubborn lug looked so out of place standing in the peach-colored room with flower-stenciled walls and a mint-green velvet canopy hanging over her bed. Barbed wire was definitely more his style.

      “Your room’s nice, Heather.”

      A compliment? Admiring comments from Royce had been few and far between over the years. “Anything is better than that hovel I grew up in.”

      “If I’d known you cared, I’d have given you money to spruce up the trailer.”

      A knot formed in her chest. She had cared. Once, she’d started to paint the kitchen a soft buttercup yellow, but her old man, in one of his drunken rages, had stumbled and fallen against the wall, smearing the paint and cursing her for ruining his clothes. After enough of those “instances,” she had realized caring was a waste of time and energy. Besides, acting as though living in a trash dump hadn’t mattered to her gave Royce one less thing to butt his nose into.

      She sat on the end of her bed, smoothed a hand over the white lace spread and swallowed twice before she could trust her voice.

      “Have a seat,” she said, motioning to the chair at the desk by the window.

      As he crossed the room, she noticed the way his western shirt pulled at his shoulders. Noticed his backside, too. The cowboy was in a category all his own. Ranching was physical work, but most of the ranchers she’d known growing up didn’t have bodies like Royce. She’d touched a few of his impressive muscles when they’d kissed long ago, and this cowboy was in a category all his own. She wondered how he managed to stay in such great shape. She knew for a fact there wasn’t a health club within fifty miles of Nowhere.

      Some fool named Sapple had opened a small sawmill in the 1920s south of town, but like so many other East Texas sawmills, the place closed up five years later. Sapple and most СКАЧАТЬ