“They’re being sent.” Pleased with her practicality, she patted the bag over her arm. “This is all I have at the moment.”
Shane couldn’t get over the sensation—the uncomfortable sensation—that he was being observed, sized up and dissected like a laboratory frog. “Great.” It relieved him when she took shaded glasses from her jacket pocket and slipped them on.
He was used to women looking at him, but not as though he were something smeared on a slide.
When they reached his truck, she gave it a brief look, then gave him another as he opened the door for her. She granted him one of those cool smiles, then tipped down her glasses to peer at him over them.
“Oh, one thing, Shane…”
Because she’d paused, he frowned a little. “Yeah?”
“Nobody calls me Becky.”
With that she slid neatly onto the seat and set her bag on the floor.
She enjoyed the ride. He drove well, and the truck ran smoothly. And she couldn’t help but get a little glow of satisfaction at having annoyed him, just a bit. Men who not only looked as good as Shane MacKade but had the extra bonus of exuding all that sex and confidence weren’t easy to take down a peg.
She’d spent a lot of her life being intimidated on any kind of social level. Only in the past few months had she begun to make progress toward holding her own. She’d become her own project, and Rebecca thought she was coming along very well.
She gave him credit for making easy conversation on the trip, annoyed or not. Before long they were off the highway and driving on winding back roads. It was a pretty picture, hills and houses, pastures and trees that held their lush summer green into the late, hazy August, an occasional horse or grazing cow.
He’d turned the radio music politely low, and all she could really hear from the speakers was the throb of the beat.
The cab of the truck was neat, with the occasional strand of golden dog hair drifting upward, and the scent of dog with it. There were a couple of scribbled notes attached by magnet to the metal dash, a handful of coins tossed into the ashtray. But it was ordered.
Perhaps that was why she spotted the little gold twist of a woman’s earring peeking out from under the floor mat. She reached down and plucked it up.
“Yours?”
He flicked a glance, caught the glint of gold and remembered that Frannie Spader had been wearing earrings like that the last time they…took a drive together.
“A friend’s.” Shane held out his hand. When the earring was in it, he dropped it carelessly amid the coins.
“She’ll want it back,” Rebecca noted idly. “It’s fourteen-karat. So…there are four of you, right?”
“Yep. Do you have any brothers, sisters?”
“No. But you run the family farm?”
“That’s the way it worked out. Jared has his law practice
, Rafe’s into building, Devin’s the sheriff.”
“And you’re the farm boy,” she finished. “What do you farm?”
“We have dairy cattle, pigs. Grow corn—feed mostly, but some nice Silver Queen—hay, alfalfa.” He could see she was taking it all in with those big intense eyes, and he added, very soberly, “We’ve had ourselves a nice crop of potatoes.”
“Really?” In unconscious sympathy with the beat whispering through the speakers, she drummed her fingers on her knee. “Isn’t that a lot of work for one man?”
“My brothers are there when they’re needed. And I take on some 4-H students seasonally.” He moved his shoulders. “I’ve got a couple of nephews coming up. They’re eleven now. I can usually con them into believing they’re having fun when they’re feeding the stock.”
“And is it fun?”
“I like it.” This time he looked at her. “Ever been on a farm?”
“No, not really. I’m an urbanite.”
“Then you’re in for a surprise with Antietam,” he murmured. “Urban it’s not.”