She turned that thought
over, as something about it bothered her. Not guilt. At least, not precisely. He took full responsibility for having abandoned her and the unborn baby that terrible night.
The thunder died away in the distance, and, sleepy, she gave a mental shrug. The one thing she was sure of, she looked forward to tomorrow’s journey.
And it was just as good as the day before.
Better, because she didn’t do something stupid like dash down a trail just before an apocalyptic storm. She soaked in all the stories about Alejo, no matter how small. Most of all, she was aware of her growing respect for Rigo, who rarely talked about himself, but she could feel his pride in their son, his concern, his caring.
Chapter 12
RIGO
He would not let himself speculate about tomorrow. He was grateful for what he had right now, just the two of them, and the road unspooling out before them.
Godiva was so gallant. That damn close call in Grand Canyon was entirely his fault. He knew how fast weather patterns could change over those mountains. He should have spoken up but he hadn’t wanted to disturb the fragile peace between them by insisting on a return to the car. Some might have resented that close call, but she clearly regarded it as an adventure.
Time passed faster than he was ready for. He kept strictly to himself the fact that he didn’t care the least about whatever the mystery was about the post office box that he had never seen. They had reunited. That was all that mattered to him. Plus there was still Long Cang back in California, and his promise to help.
But first priority was his mate, and this mystery mattered to her.
He had prepared carefully curated stacks of CDs for those long stretches without WiFi or decent radio stations, but he never brought them out of their box in the trunk. They chattered the entire time.
She wanted to know everything, or nearly everything.
Shifters, animals’ minds and how they think. What life was really like in those small towns early in the 20th Century, where the law tended to be the nearest tough guy. He’d learned early to defend himself, and was good at it. He later discovered that his strength and speed was largely due to his shifter side. But that had been life as usual.
“It was never anything to brag about,” he said. “Much less talk about, unless you were looking for trouble. And some did. There were those who walked into a bar just to challenge the toughest-looking guy there. I had no interest in that. But you had to look out for yourself, because there was no fallback, especially in those early days far from cities and civilization. Even later. Which is why I made sure that Alejo learned some self-defense when he came to Kentucky.”
“I could have used that,” Godiva said with a sigh. “But in those days, women weren’t allowed, or were kept back behind baby rules for their own safety. So I had to live by my wits.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, nothing like what happened to you.” She waved a hand. “Living by my wits meant avoiding any situation that looked the least bit dubious. But there were enough close calls that made me wish I could karate chop my way through some prize jerks.”
She’d clearly been in some hairy situations, and though she had freely talked about a lot of things, casually mentioning the more colorful of her many roommates over the years, the one thing she hadn’t brought up was relationships.
But he didn’t ask, because he believed he had lost his right to.
So he resolved to leave it to her to bring up that subject.
She didn’t.
They were trading anecdotes about the first refrigerators they ever saw as the 70 joined the 80 outside Denver (where they stopped for an excellent meal of fresh-water fish). Fridges led to other “first time” encounters with various inventions, which by the time they crossed the Kansas border turned into anecdotes about Alejo’s earliest years.
Rigo wanted to hear everything about his childhood, and once Godiva saw that he wasn’t bored—far from it—out came the little stories. He got to hear about Alejo learning to climb before he learned to walk, and how at eighteen months old he managed to make it onto the garage roof before they found him. How for a long time about the only toys he had were a half set of Lincoln Logs, to which he’d add rocks and twigs, building forts for the characters he’d draw himself on old newsprint and laboriously cut out.
His first lost tooth (knocked out by trying to fly from an eight foot wall), his first film (Disney’s Peter Pan, which had finally made it to the cheap theaters, resulting in said attempt to fly), his first friend, his first fight with a friend, his tree house secret club that wasn’t very secret, his knack for knowing all the names of every animal on the block within a few days of moving to a new place, and how he’d save bits of his meals to hand out to said animals if he thought his mom wasn’t looking.
His first overnight, with the Boy Scout troop that his friend Lance’s dad was Scout Master of—and how Godiva spent that entire night pressed up against the apartment door in case the phone in the hallway rang.
“I never told him about those long sleepless nights,” Godiva said. “I knew he had to do boy things. And I liked Lance Jackson Senior. He was a firefighter, so I figured he knew about camp safety. But I hated those overnights until I could trust Alejo to find a bus, and to keep hold of a dime to call home if he had to.”
Rigo understood what she was saying, perhaps unconsciously—that she’d lost her trust in men. But she had still done her best to raise Alejo to be a good man. And she’d done a terrific job.
Every time they stopped, he found texts from Alejo asking for updates. He knew what their son wanted to hear, that the mate bond was true, that they were together again. He wasn’t sure what to say, except variations on the So far so good theme.
The night before they crossed into Illinois, they encountered so much summer traffic that the motels were all full. Since they could both afford a hotel, they were resigned to the inevitable, though, as Godiva grumped when they pulled their suitcases out, “I was living hand to mouth for long enough to really resent shelling out more than two hundred clams just to park my butt for eight hours. I don’t need fancy décor. Just clean, and plenty of hot water.”