He opened the door of an old truck with faded red paint, and reaching in, shoved at the clutter on the seat. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting a passenger.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s a relief to see someone’s as messy as I am.”
“If that’s the way of it, take a warning. Hide and confine your debris. Branna’s orderly, and she’ll hound you like a dog if you leave things flung about.”
“So noted.”
She boosted up, slid in among clipboards, wrappers, an old towel, rags, and a shallow cardboard box holding hoof picks, bridle rings, a couple of batteries, and a screwdriver.
He got in the opposite door, shoved a key in the ignition.
“You didn’t say much in there.”
“Being friends with all parties, I find it best to stay out of it altogether.”
The truck rattled, the rain pattered, and Iona settled back.
“They’re a t
hing.”
“Who’s a thing?”
“Branna and Fin. They either are, or were, involved. The sexual buzz was so loud my ears are still ringing.”
He shifted, frowned out at the road. “I’m not after gossiping about friends.”
“It’s not gossip. It’s an observation. It must be complicated, for both of them. And it’s clear I need to know what’s going on. You know more about any of it than I do, and I’m in it.”
“Put yourself there from what I can see.”
“Maybe I did. So what? How did you know I’m like them?”
“I’ve known them most of my life, been a part of theirs. I saw it in you, with the horse.”
Brows knit, she shifted to face him. “Most people wouldn’t be so casual about it. Why are you?”
“I’ve known them most of my life,” he repeated.
“I don’t see how it can be that simple. I can do this.” She held out her palm and, focusing hard, managed to flick a small flame in its center.
It was pitiful compared to Branna, but she’d been working on it off and on.
He barely glanced her way. “Convenient if you’re backpacking and misplace the matches.”
“You’re a cool customer.” She had to admire it. “If I’d pulled that on the guy I’d been dating, he’d have gone through the door, leaving a cartoon-guy hole in it.”
“Must not have been much for backpacking.”
She started to laugh, then caught her breath when fog rose up on the road ahead like a wall. Her hands balled into fists as the truck punched through it, tightened as the fog blanketed over them.
“Do you hear that? Can you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“My name. He keeps saying my name.”
Though he was forced to slow to a crawl, Boyle kept his hands steady on the wheel. “Who’s saying your name?”