mother’s passing.
“I’m… I’m sorry for what I said,” Owen replied softly.
He was staring forward at some distant spot, his jaw clenched tightly and his hands rigid around the steering wheel.
Following his gaze down the road, Charlotte saw that they were within sight of the ranch, just on the other side of the bridge.
Faintly, she could hear the distinctive sounds of work, an errant whistle, the pounding of a hammer, and even the faint barking
of a dog. If she wanted to, she could just open the truck’s door and walk away…
“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Owen continued, turning to face Charlotte with an intensity that forced her to look away.
“Losing a mother is hard enough without some jackass makin’ it worse. I know I was only foolin’, but that don’t mean you knew
it.”
“That’s… that’s all right,” she answered. “It was a long time ago.”
“Don’t make it any easier to bear.”
Charlotte had met other people stricken by the loss of a parent who carried their grief as if it were a physical thing. In
the right moment, you could read their loss on their face as easily as words on a page.
Now, as he sat in the truck, Owen’s grief was that apparent.
She struggled with the desire to say something, to ask him if her assumption was true, but she didn’t want to pry. If Owen
wanted to confide in her, he would when he was ready.
Regardless, his actions had demonstrated that there was much more to Owen Williams than she had been led to believe. Maybe,
just maybe, he bore a passing resemblance to the man who had intrigued her the night before, stopping at the door to look
back at her.
“Some days are worse than others,” she admitted, finding the strength to look directly at him.
“I know just what you mean,” he answered quietly.
Before Charlotte could say another word, Owen let up on the brake and gave the truck some gas. Even as the truck rolled over
the planks of the bridge, her piercing eyes never left him.
When he caught her staring at him, he grinned. “What I just said don’t mean I’m gonna stop callin’ you Charlie, though.”
“Then you should just get used to being punched in the arm.”
Owen laughed. “I suppose I can live with that.”
And so could Charlotte.
Chapter Seven
J OHN G RANT DROVE the old truck past the holding corrals where dozens of horses’ necks were bent deep into their water troughs as a relief
against the sweltering heat, headed past the open barn doors where soot-streaked men sweated over a blazing anvil, the heavy
blows of their hammers sending off showers of sparks, and eventually past the last workman’s cabin, heading away from the
ranch house. Charlotte sat beside him, wondering where he was taking her and what mysterious job he had in mind for her to
do. Why was it all so much of a secret?
While the truck bounced down the uneven road, Salt and Pepper ran alongside, furiously trying to keep up. Though Salt made
much easier progress, an expression on his face that seemed to say he was just out enjoying the afternoon, Pepper yapped with
every frenzied step of his small legs; Charlotte could not tell if his barking was outof some hostility toward the truck or frustration that he couldn’t go any faster. Finally, he could do no more, stopping with
a sharp flurry of barking before turning back the way he had come, Salt trotting along behind.
“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” she finally asked.
“You’ll understand,” John promised, “when we’re there. “It’s easier to see than it is to explain.”
Too bad that patience was never a virtue I had very much of…
Charlotte thought, and leaned against the door, resting her arm along the open window to catch a bit of breeze.
The rushing air cooled the sweaty heat that clung tenaciously to her skin. So far, every day since her arrival in Oklahoma
had been about the same. Above, a blazing sun filled the mostly