Patti Standard - Say You'll Stay And Marry Me

“Just traveling.”

Mac could tell his questions made her nervous. She seemed relieved when her truck came into view.

“There it is.”

He pulled behind the late-model, four-wheel-drive truck and camper. Sara jumped from his truck before he had time to open the door for her. Pulling a key ring from her pocket, she unlocked the door to the camper and unfolded a set of aluminum stairs. “I’ll get that water,” she said over her shoulder.

Mac peered into the camper through the open door. The compact space had a table and padded bench under one window and a tiny kitchen on the other side—although he wasn’t sure he would call a sink the size of his cereal bowl, a shoe-box-size refrigerator and a two-burner stove exactly a kitchen. A mattress covered with a floral-print spread was tucked over the cab, and closets and storage bays cunningly crammed every spare inch. Like the inside of a doll house, everything was neat as a pin, almost clinically so, from the wrinkle-free bedspread to the paper towel roll with a perfectly torn edge centered on the wall above a miniature cutting board.

“Quite a setup you’ve got here,” he said as Sara pulled a five-gallon water jug from a cupboard under the stove. He took the heavy container from her and helped her down the stairs.

“Everything I need.”

“A little small, though.”

“I prefer to think of it as cozy.”

“Cozy like a turtle, maybe.”

Sara laughed, and the sound was enough to stop him in his tracks. He looked at her, captivated again by her dove gray eyes, alight with humor.

“I guess it is,” she said. “I’ve never quite thought of it that way. I just carry my home around with me wherever I go—like a turtle.”

“I wouldn’t call it exactly a home, would you? More like a hotel room. But it must be pretty convenient when you’re on the road.” He saw her smile fade and wondered. He started walking and set the water in front of the truck. “Let me get my toolbox and we’ll start in.”

Not a home? Sara patted the blue metal fender well protectively. It was the perfect home, as far as she was concerned. A thousand times more home than the neat brick house near the university where she’d lived for twenty years with her husband. Those bricks had formed walls so high they’d blocked her sun, cut off her air, made her fear they would tumble in on her at any moment, trapping her in the debris. But this, the metal under her hand warm and smooth, this truck and camper were freedom—and all the home she ever planned to have again.

She watched while Mac deftly removed the clamps, pried off the torn hose and slipped the new one in place. He filled the radiator with antifreeze and water and screwed the radiator cap tight.

“All set. Why don’t you start ’er up, Sara, and let’s make sure that new hose is going to do the trick.”

Sara turned the key and the engine roared instantly to life. She smiled in satisfaction.

“Uh-oh.” Her satisfaction was short-lived as she heard Mac’s warning over the rumble of the engine.

“What’s the matter?” She got out to stand beside Mac and stuck her head under the hood next to his. Her ponytail fell over her shoulder as she looked at the engine, the heavy-sweet smell of antifreeze making her wrinkle her nose. She followed his pointing finger and saw a small drop of water form along the bottom of a hose to the left of the radiator. The drop fattened, stretched, then fell to the ground. Another followed and another, making beads in the dust before collapsing to soak into the dirt.

“Maybe you spilled some water when you filled the radiator, and it’s just running down that hose?” she asked hopefully.

But he shook his head. “It’s another leak. You’ve probably had it a while and didn’t even know it. You better drive to the station and I’ll replace that hose, too. In fact, you ought to change out all your hoses if you’re headed clear to Canada.”

Sara sighed and nodded. “You’re right.” She felt her teeth begin to worry the inside of her cheek and forced herself to stop the nervous habit. Another hour or so didn’t make any difference. She’d still make Jackson in time to get a spot in a park, although it might be difficult this close to Yellowstone on a Friday evening in the middle of June. Well, she’d worry about it when she got there. If nothing else, two years on the road had given her a nonlinear perspective of time. Yesterdays and tomorrows tended to blend together. Straightening, she removed the metal rod and let the hood slam into place.

“I’ll meet you at the station then,” she said briskly.

“I’ll be right behind you.” Mac started for his truck and she allowed herself a moment to watch him while his back was to her, to appreciate the way he moved, confident and purposeful, with long strides that stretched his faded jeans in interesting ways around his hips.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, she chided herself. Ogling the man like some sex-starved, premenopausal old woman. She shook her head at her thoughts and climbed behind the wheel, reminding herself that with a ranch and two sons—maybe more—there was sure to be a wife in a gingham apron somewhere inside that big white house.

Sara reached under the seat and pulled out her purse. She set it in its customary place, precisely in the middle of the bench seat between the seat belt fasteners. Then she adjusted the side mirrors and tilted the rearview mirror a minuscule degree. Her thumb brushed over the lighted radio panel to remove the slight film of dust that had accumulated during her drive north from Rock Springs.

There.

Perfect.

She slipped the truck into gear and guided it onto the highway, heading back the way she’d come.

A half hour later, Mac was tightening the last clamp. Sara watched from where she sat on the cool concrete floor, her back against the leg of a splintered workbench. He’d raised the truck on the hydraulic lift to reach an awkward hose and was standing under the engine, arms above his head. His work shirt was pulled tight across his back, the denim worn thin enough that she could see the outline of his muscles as they bunched and flexed in his shoulders. His biceps swelled with every twist of his wrist, and she stared, fascinated by the masculine rhythm.

The loud jingle of the station door opening made her blink, and she dragged her eyes away from their voyeuristic study. “It’s, uh, it’s pretty busy around here,” she said. The bell had signaled a customer several times already, keeping Michael running between the pumps and the cash register.

“Weekends are good.”

She saw Michael head out to check the oil on a red minivan. “Michael’s certainly working hard. Do you have other children that help?”

“Jacob’s up at the ranch right now.” Mac muttered a quick curse as he tried to reach into a tight space.

“It must be tough to manage a ranch and a gas station at the same time,” Sara said. Talk was better than silence, she’d decided, considering where silence seemed to lead her thoughts.

“It’s not too bad. We only open the station in the summer—for the tourists. It’s a way for the boys to earn college money.” His voice echoed hollowly from inside the engine. “During the winter, we use the garage to repair the ranch equipment and store our fuel in the tanks. It beats running in to Dutch Creek every time you need gas.”

“You’re a long way from anywhere, all right.” She shifted on the floor, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them.

“Sometimes too far.” He let out a puff of held breath as he gave a last twist to the screwdriver. “Sometimes not far enough.” He ducked his head and peered at her. “Hey, Sara, bring me a soda from the cooler, will you? And get something for yourself if you want.”