Lost and Found (3 page)

“Sorry to break it to you, Cowboy, but there’s a serious flaw in your little plan there.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jesse replied, turning down
another
dirt road that looked like it went on forever. “What serious flaw?”

“Assuming I
want
to open up to you.” That was one giant-sized beast of a flaw.

He slid his hat off and dropped it on the dashboard. That mop of blond hair fell back into its perfectly imperfect style. “We all want to open up to someone, Rowen. The hard part is finding someone we trust enough to open up to. That person we’re not afraid to let into the darkest parts of our world.”

By that point in the conversation, I wasn’t as shocked when that little gem came from his mouth. He seemed full of them.

“And you think you’re the person I’ll trust enough to open up to?” I said, pulling my arm back inside the truck to cross my arms.

Jesse lifted his shoulder. “Only time will tell.”

I’d been in some strange situations in my eighteen years of life, seen some crazy shit, but that. . . having the deepest kind of deep conversation with a Montana cowboy I’d met fifteen minutes earlier at a Greyhound station had to rate in the top ten.

“Do you ever just do casual conversation?” I asked, hoping he answered with a yes or that Willow Springs was less than a minute away.

“Once in a blue moon,” he replied.

I pursed my lips to keep from smirking. I’d never heard the blue moon reference come out of the mouth of someone who didn’t qualify for the senior citizen discount.

“Since it’s still light out, let’s just assume that tonight, the moon’s going to be blue,” I said. “It’s casual conversation time for the rest of the ride.”

“Fair enough. What do you want to talk casually about?”

I rolled my eyes. “If it’s easier, we could just not talk.”

“Nah, that’s definitely not easier for me. I like to talk. I like to talk so much, sometimes I find myself carrying on one-sided conversations with the cattle,” he said, as Old Bessie hit a pot hole that made me bounce a good foot in the air. Apparently modern conveniences like paved and maintained roads were not so “modern” or “convenient” out here. “I’m a pretty good listener, too. You know, if you ever have anything you want to
open
up about.”

I groaned and contemplated shoving his arm. I didn’t though because, judging from the size of his arms and knowing those arms could lift my bag like it was a two-pound dumbbell, my weakling shove wouldn’t even register.

“How about a little harmless Q and A?” Jesse suggested. “You ask me a question. I ask you one. Round and round we go until we get to Willow Springs.”

I was opening my mouth when Jesse cut back in.

“Don’t worry. We’ll keep the questions as impersonal as possible.” Studying my face for a moment, he quirked a brow. “That work for you, Miss Very Complicated?”

Only because I was already exhausted from going back and forth with him did I nod.

Jesse smiled like he’d just pulled off a solid victory. “Ladies first.”

I rolled my fingers over my arm. I wanted to ask Jesse a bunch of questions; at least a dozen fired off in my mind. But only one made its way through my vocal chords. “Why in the hell do you wear such tight jeans?”

Jesse’s face flattened for a second before it lined from the laugh bursting from his mouth. “I thought we said nothing personal,” he managed to get out around his laughter.

“Eh . . . is that a personal question?” It didn’t seem like one to me.

“Yes,” he said, his laughter dimming. “And no. But I’ll answer it anyways.”

“How very
open
of you,” I tossed back.

“Ignoring that wiseass comment . . .” he said, giving me a look. “I wear tight jeans because I’m on a horse at least a few hours every day. Tighter jeans mean less chaffing. Your first lesson in Ranch Survival 101? Avoid any and all forms of chaffing.”

“Noted.” I nodded once and tapped my head. “Your turn.”

“I wasn’t done answering your question yet.” He gave me a look that suggested that should have been obvious.

“Carry on,” I said with a wave of my hand.

“I wear tight jeans because when I’m out in the fields, I don’t want anything crawling or slithering past my knees. I knew a guy who wore a baggy pair of jeans one day when he was setting a fence, and let’s just say his wife has been a very unsatisfied woman for the past six years.”

“Yikes.” Just the thought of a snake, a spider, or some other creepy-crawler heading up my leg was enough to make me want to invest in a pair of tight-as-tight-could-be jeans.

“And last but nowhere near least, I wear tight jeans because I like the way the girls’ heads turn when I walk by.” His eyes twinkled. They goddamned twinkled.

Groaning again, that time I did lean over and give him a half-hearted shove. “They’re only looking because they’ve been taking bets on when those things are going to bust a seam.”

“Ah, please,” he said, pursing his lips. “Don’t pretend you weren’t checking my butt out when I walked by you earlier. I felt like my ass was about to catch on fire from your unblinking, laser eyes.”

I wasn’t much of a blusher, but I might have just felt the heat of one surfacing. I wasn’t sure if it had more to do with being caught or the image of Jesse’s backside flashing through my mind again.

“Are you going to ask your question, or are you going to go on and on about your love affair with your backside?” I tried to glare at him. It wasn’t working.

He raised a hand in surrender, but those dimples of his stayed drilled deep into his cheeks. “Sticking with the whole personal attire thing . . .” he said, glancing at me. “Do you have a thing against color or do you just really love black?”

It was clear from Jesse’s tone and expression that there was nothing antagonistic about his question. Just genuine curiosity.

“No,” I answered, moving in my seat. “Color has a thing against me.”

I felt Jesse’s eyes on me, waiting for me to say something else,—explain just what the hell I meant—but he could wait for the rest of eternity before he’d get any more out of me.

“And you said I’m the philosophical one?” he said after a while.

“Yep, that’s what I said.” I sat up and stared out the window. “Now that was two questions, so I get two before you get to ask me another.”

“Wha . . .?” he said before it registered. Jesse sighed. “Just for future reference, rhetorical questions don’t count in this little question game.”

“A question’s a question,” I stated, all matter-of-fact.

Jesse sighed again. Louder that time. “I didn’t take you for the question rule police.”

“And I didn’t take you as the question rule corrupt.” I continued to stare out the side window so he wouldn’t see the smile twitching at my lips.

Jesse chuckled. “Fine. You win. Besides, I learned years ago that to start an argument with a woman is to lose an argument.” Before I could praise him with a
Smart Man
comment, he continued. “We’re getting close to Willow Springs. You better hurry and ask your
two
questions.”

Looking at him, I took a guess before asking, “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Not bad. I’d guessed twenty, so I’d been pretty darn close.

“Next,” he prompted, turning down yet another dirt road. It had two tall logs on either side of the road with a rusted metal sign hanging from the top that read
Willow Springs Ranch
.

Home not-so sweet home. For the next three months.

Just shoot me now.

Jesse was persistent, and the road leading into Willow Springs was never-ending. That’s the only reason I agreed to continue our twisted game of question and answer.

“Okay, okay,” I said, finally giving in. “This is a big one. In fact, it’s so big, our future friendship hangs in the balance.”

“That’s a bit melodramatic,” he said, slowing the truck down a bit. Maybe he wasn’t ready for our question game to be over. “But I hear you city girls have a flare for the dramatic.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And I hear you country boys have a flare for some good, old-fashioned bigotry. But I like to give a person the benefit of the doubt before I make assumptions about them being a bigoted asshole.”

“Or a melodramatic diva?” he added, grinning like the devil. Before I could snap back, his wicked expression flattened. “Anytime today with that big, pivotal question, Non-Melodramatic-Rowen.”

“Okay, Non-Bigoted-Asshole-Jesse,”—now I was the one smiling wickedly—“do you, have you ever, or do you in the future plan to . . .” I drew it out a few more moments for “melodramatic” flare, “ . . . listen to country music?”

Jesse’s eyes flickered to Old Bessie’s newer CD player, then to me. He moved fast, but I moved faster.

His hand had barely left the steering wheel before I hit the eject button and snatched the CD that popped out of the player.

“Johnny Cash?!” I shouted. “Shit, this is worse than I thought. You don’t just listen to country. You listen to prehistoric country.” Pinching it with my fingers, I held it out for him. “Take it. Just take it. Before it burns me.”

“No, of course not. You’re not melodramatic,” Jesse said under his breath as he took the CD spawned in hell away from me.

“You can call me melodramatic when it comes to country music,” I replied. “In fact, I’m almost certain the term ‘melodramatic’ was invented in response to the birth of country music. That was, as the song goes, the day the music died.” I was lukewarm about most things in life, reserving my passion for a rare few. Country music, and the eardrums it damaged both near and far, was one of those rare few.

Then, fast as I’d moved removing it, Jesse popped that CD back into the player and twisted the volume dial until it could twist no farther. Before I could ear-muff my ears with my hands, music exploded. Some dude with a deep, Elvis-esque voice started going off about walking and lines.

“Not funny, Jesse!” I hollered above the music, dropped a hand from my ear, and chanced the inner ear damage the hellfire music would cause in order to try to wrestle his hand away.

“It’s pretty darn funny from where I’m sitting,” he shouted, welding his hand over the CD player so I couldn’t budge it. The harder I tried, the harder he laughed.

Just as I contemplated throwing myself out of the truck to be free of the whole walking lines shit, the most welcome/unwelcome sight I’d ever seen came into view: a white, two-story farm house, complete with a freshly painted, big red barn beside it.

“Oh, thank sweet baby Jesus.” I gave up my hand war with Jesse to grab the door handle. Once was one time too many when it came to riding in Old Bessie with Johnny Cash on full blast.

Right before we rolled to a stop in front of the house, Jesse mercifully turned the music off. But the damage had been done.

I would never be the same after that. Never.

“Do me a favor, will ya?” I said, shoving open the door.

“If it involves snapping in half or burning my favorite CD . . . sorry. No can do,” he replied, his own door creaking open.

“Next time I need a ride, don’t offer. I’d rather run, walk, or bloody crawl twenty miles than listen to that shit-for-music for another twenty seconds.” Once I was out of Old Bessie, I turned to look at him. His hat was back in place, and he studied me again with that same knowing smile. “Capiche?” I added, pretending like staring at Jesse staring at me didn’t make my knees feel a bit out of whack.

“I don’t speak melodramatic city girl talk, but how about if I promise to not force Mr. Cash on you again if you need another ride from me?” He slid out of his seat without taking his eyes off of me, and he slammed the door closed. Both dimples were buried in his cheeks. “Just please, promise you won’t do anything to my favorite CD? It would break my heart.”

“Even if I tried, that sucker is so chock-full of black voodoo magic it would take a dozen witches to destroy it,” I replied, arching a brow at him, which only made his smile go higher.

Jesse was just opening his mouth when a screen door screeched open behind me.

“If you aren’t the spitting image of your mom,” the woman coming down the porch steps said, smiling at me like I could have been her long-lost daughter.

I felt my face pinch together. Not because the woman looked like a modern version of the women on Little House on the Prairie, but because she’d said I looked like my mom. No one said that because we had no similarities. On the exterior or the interior.

“Rowen Sterling, it is so good to finally meet you,” she said, and just as I extended my hand to her, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a solid hug. “I’m Mrs. Walker, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll call me Rose.” Giving me a final squeeze, she lowered her arms. “My mother-in-law is Mrs. Walker.”

“Okay, Rose,” I said. “I think I can manage that.” Especially since the only time I called people Mr. or Mrs. was when it involved a hefty dose of sarcasm.

She tucked a few curls of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear. “We’re all so glad you’re here. When your mom called and asked if you could spend the summer with us, I don’t think I gave her a chance to finish her sentence before I said yes.”