“But Adam has your eyes.”
“He does now. When he was born, they were dark blue and all swollen. He kind of looked like Winston Churchill, to tell you the truth. He had a hard time and was an ugly little spud. But the second I looked into his tiny face, and the second he looked at me, we were buddies. And biology didn’t mean squat. He was mine. He was my son.”
Hope looked in Dylan’s eyes, and her silly heart swelled. She was proud of him and didn’t really know why. Maybe for being a real man. Maybe just for being him. She leaned forward a little and laid her head on his bare shoulder. “You’re a good man, Dylan Taber.”
“Why, because I do what I’m supposed to do? Most men are like me. You just happened to marry a guy who was hung up on the wrong things.”
“I think somewhere in our marriage he changed. He looked at me different, I think. At first he thought I was enough for him, but I wasn’t.” Ev
erything inside Hope stilled. She hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to confess her soul. Dylan made her feel too comfortable.
“You’re kidding me. You’re about the most perfect woman I’ve ever had the pleasure to touch.”
She wanted to believe him. She wanted it more than she could remember wanting anything. But she didn’t. Not really. “No, not quite perfect.”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “Why, because you don’t have a uterus?”
The way he said it sounded so clinical. “You make it sound like we’re discussing an appendix.”
“Just about.” He placed his hands on the sides of her face and raised her gaze to his.
“No, it not the same thing. It’s not a reproductive organ.”
“I don’t mean to sound insensitive here, but there is a hell of a lot more to being a woman than reproducing. A hell of a lot more to being a man than knocking up women. If you ask me, your ex-husband sounds like a jerk, and he did you a real favor by having that affair with your friend. I know he did me a favor. Otherwise, you’d be in Carmel or playing golf in Palm Springs. Instead, you’re standing here with me without your panties on.”
She laughed. “That’s true.”
He slid a hand beneath the back of her dress and grasped her bare behind. “And I wouldn’t have ruined you for other men.”
“You heard that, huh?”
“Of course.” He brushed his nose against hers. “Anything else you want to tell me you’ve lied about before I ruin you some more?”
No, she’d confessed enough for one day. “That’s it.”
Wind whipped Hope’s ponytail about her head as she pawed through the cassette tapes in Dylan’s truck. More Dwight Yoakam, Aaron Tippin, John Anderson, Garth Brooks… and AC/DC. She took the latter out of the case and held it up. “Highway To Hell?”
He looked over at her through his mirrored sunglasses and grinned like he was sixteen. “Partied a lot with those boys.”
“I thought cowboys listened to country.”
He shrugged and turned his attention back to the road. “I used to listen to Blue Oyster Cult, too. And, of course, Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson.”
“I remember my brother listening to AC/DC.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Yep.” She plugged in the tape and said, “Evan lives in Germany with his wife and kids. I don’t see him much.”
Suddenly the inside of the truck was assaulted with an electric guitar and screeching vocals. Hope turned the volume down several notches below earsplitting and sat back to enjoy the ride into the Idaho wilderness. Earlier, Dylan had woken her up from a sound sleep with the wild idea of backpacking to a lake he wanted her to see.
Since she needed pictures for her alien stories anyway, she hadn’t been opposed to a hike. Until he’d told her they would spend the night and return tomorrow. She’d refused to even consider sleeping in a tent, but then he’d sat on her and kissed her neck and told her he wouldn’t let the bears get her. It hadn’t been his promise of safety that had swayed her, but she’d discovered days ago that she was sucker for the way he kissed her neck.
It had been a week since that Wednesday afternoon when he’d barged into her house and assured her he hadn’t come over for sex. A week since the condom incident. A week since they’d bothered with one. She’d seen him every day. Slept with him every night. He’d taught her how to do the two-step and taken her night fishing. He’d told her about his life as a homicide detective. How and why he’d come to hate it, and how much he enjoyed his life now. She told him about college and writing obituaries for The Los Angeles Times, and how she was trying to enjoy her life again. They discussed the article about Hiram she was working on. She asked him questions and he answered. No, he hadn’t been the FBI’s informant and he didn’t know who it had been. No, he hadn’t been first on the scene the night the old sheriff had killed himself, although he’d arrived shortly after the FBI agents. He’d seen the photographs and videos and the dead body of a man out of control.
She’d asked for his perspective.
“He had a sickness that got too big for him. When you cheat and steal and risk everything, you have a problem. The more he got into it, the more he wanted. In California, it’s not that difficult to find a place that caters to that sort of thing. But this is Gospel, honey. If you want to get tied up, you have to go to where the talent resides. And that takes money.” He smiled and winked at her. “Unless you find someone who enjoys that sort of thing as much as you do.”