Eruption (Yellowblown™ Book 1) (21 page)

“I…um,” he started to say.

I lifted my hand to stop him. “Hey, we’re all in this together somehow, aren’t we?”

He nodded.

“Good luck,” I said as I turned back to Boone.

 

One
of the many nice things about dating Dudley Do Right is he holds the disgusting trashcan flapper open at self-serve restaurants.

“You always that good with kids?”

I shrugged. “I babysat a girl about her age over the summer.”

“Well, what you did was awesome. She went from crying her eyes out to eating a second burger.”

“I can take a turn driving,” I said, uncomfortable with the praise.

“I’m used to doing it solo
,” he said.

At least he let me buy lunch
.
“You don’t seem like one of those guys who is super-protective of his car.”

“I’m not.”

“You doubt my driving skills?”

“Nope.”

“Male chauvinist?”

He rolled his eyes.

I balked at the passenger door he opened for me. “Well, what is it then? You can’t honestly want to drive all four hundred miles if you don’t have to.”

He pursed his lips. “
Maybe I’m old-fashioned. I think, in the early stages of a couple, it’s nice for the man to drive. It’s a courtesy. Like holding a door.” He swept his hand toward the seat.

His use of the word couple
helped me forgive much. “Big difference between driving across town and driving across states. You’re still a gentleman even if you let me drive for an hour or two.”

Damn the secret weapon of physical contact. A coercive hand on my hip and a compelling
, if too brief, kiss floated me into the truck.

My temple leaned on the headrest
as the exit signs pinged by on Interstate 75 South. Grit swirled over the surface of the highway, like the first tiny flakes of snow on a freezing cold day. We were about halfway home, and my nerves ratcheted up when I told him to head west on Route 71. We Perches lived in the sticks, inconvenient to any major road. Highway 71 to 64 veered too far south, but were the best we could do if we wanted to maintain good speed instead of bumbling along on a two lane state road the whole breadth of Indiana.

We took a break at a rest stop west of Louisville
that offered a few picnic tables, a three-sided shed full of vending machines and an American flag with an edge tattered by constant wind. I walked away from the truck to stretch while Boone went to use the passable bathrooms. With one wrist gripped in my opposite hand, I pulled my arms over my head and watched a primer gray pickup truck cruise off the highway. A guy with a black leather cap and beady eyes leaned out the passenger window. At first I thought he might be car sick, but he waved his hand toward Boone’s truck. Springs squeaked when the driver stopped right behind.

My throat tightened as adrenalin shot into my blood
stream. “Really?” I whispered in disbelief. The passenger slipped out and immediately disappeared behind our tall vehicle. My quick scan toward the tables and shed showed no police and no Boone in sight, only strangers eating early dinners out of coolers and feeding dollar bills into reluctant soda machines sold out of everything except diet yuck.

I stepped forward
at an angle to check on Sneaky without getting any closer to him. “Hell, they’re full,” I heard him exclaim to the driver.

“Excuse me,” I called when I had moved far enough t
o see him messing with the bungee cords.

His head jerked up and his smile scored zero on the innocence meter.
“Hey, uh, your straps are loose.”

“I don’t think so. My boyfriend checked them before he went inside.” I used a thumb to indicate the cement building behind me.
Maybe I took liberties with my relationship status, but I figured boyfriend indicated proximity of a man-type-person.

“Nebraska, eh?”
Sneaky’s eyes swept up and down me in more of an assessment of my threat potential than anything sexual.

I shifted my weight.

“The plates. They say Nebraska. Long way. That why you need all this gas?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I said.

A menacing presence swooped from behind me. The vision of being hauled into the pickup like a kidnapping/homicide victim on
Criminal Minds
ricocheted through my head. I braced, ready to resist.

Instead
of a stranger grabbing me, Boone stepped past.

“Something I can help you with?” His voice sounded casual, but something in the expression I couldn’t see or his
forward-leaning stance backed the guy up toward the open door behind him.

Sneaky
grinned like a rodent. “Hey, man, I was checking your load,” he said. “Thought one of these straps looked loose.”

“Is that
considered neighborly in Indiana?”

“Sure, man,” the guy said as he slid into the seat. The driver gunned the motor before the door slammed shut. Hoots of derision
trailed out the open windows.

“Damn,” Boone said. H
e turned to me. “Are you all right?”

I held my arms out to my sides. “Nothing happened.”

“I’m sure sorry, Violet. I didn’t think anything
would
happen in broad daylight with all these people around.”

“It’s not your fault the
dude’s a criminal.”

“
Damn,” he said again as he pulled me into his arms. He nuzzled his nose against my hair. “You’re full of surprises today. First, you end a little girl’s complete breakdown with a stuffed hippo, then you chase away a gas rustler.”

I pressed my lips to his cheek, loving the smell of him,
the solidity of his form against me. “I think you did the chasing. I stalled them.”

T
he primered truck’s tires chirped as it ripped down the exit ramp.

Boone pulled
away from me. “We’d better get going, in case they circle back.”

It only took a few second
s for Boone to re-secure the gas cans. When we were both back in the cab, he looked from me to the glove box and back again. He reached behind my seat for the box of crackers. He shook it in front of my nose, but instead of the rustle of dry snacks, it jingled. I’d heard that sound before.

“Is that where you keep the bullets?”

He nodded.

“Not that I’d know what to do with them.”

“You don’t need to know,” he said. He put the box at my feet, within reach.

 

Twilight threatened on the last leg of the drive. Farm fields flanked the state road, punctuated by dusty forest and scrub. My hands clenched in my lap. Until now, I’d maintained a strict separation of college life from home life. If I’d had to choose one person from Western Case I wouldn’t expose to my family, it would have been Boone.

A
t least not so soon.

“Looks like the farmers go
t most of the crops in,” he observed. “They sure jam these fields into some small spots.”

“A little farther on Route 50 is Gardenburg
, the closest real town and where I went to high school.”

“
Your sister goes there? Does she still have school?”

“As far as I know
.” My stomach sank. Details of life at The Perch would soon equal the sum total of my life. Gag. “Turn left here, then right onto Laurel Gap Road.”

Was I crazy, bringing him here? Just to watch him drive away tomorrow? No Boone, no Mia, no classes or hanging out in the lounge or…. As if sensing my agitation, or perhaps sharing it, Boone reached across the center console to curve his hand around my knee. I slid mine flat over top, stared at it, tried to memorize the vision of my hand on his hand on my leg.

I mourned the loss when he needed the hand to navigate the truck up our narrow driveway. We climbed gradually through thirty feet of forest left to grow wild. I tried to see the place through his eyes, with the trees encroaching on all sides until we reached a small balding yard further scarred by a fresh rectangle of bare dirt in the middle. What? I whipped my head to the right to study the tilled area, about the size of a quarter of a tennis court. Sara had warned me, but seeing the furrowed soil made the whole garden and seed-planting thing real.

A
slight right bend around a cluster of butterfly bushes brought us into full view of the house. Lights glowed on the deep front porch, though the sun hadn’t quite set. It got dark early in our gap with the shade of the woods all around.

The gray wood siding contrasted with a charcoal metal roof
—new last summer—and dark blue trim. Both my parents’ cars were in front of the double detached garage, instead of inside where they usually parked.

“You can pull over to the left,” I suggested, trying to sound casual despite the horror of seeing my family boil out onto the front porch. All three of them headed right for us like
dogs on a scent trail. There wasn’t going to be any easing into this.

Boone
slipped the truck smoothly into the extra parking spot and switched off the engine. “Well, we made it.”

“Yeah. Now you have to meet those three,” I said, hearing the quiver in my voice.

“They don’t look like axe murderers,” he replied as Dad pulled my door open.

“You made it
,” he said.

My smile was totally involuntary.
“Hi, Dad,” I said as I slipped out of the car.

He enfolded me in a tight hug. “I’m so glad to have you home, safe and sound.”

Mom followed, rocking me back and forth on my feet. Sara gave a “whatever” wave over Mom’s shoulder, her eyes pinned behind the twenty gallons of gas where Boone must be standing.

“Welcome to The Perch,” Dad said.

Boone had removed his hat. He thrust his hand out. “Thank you, sir. Boone Ramer.”

“Matt Perch,” my dad said
. They shook hands.

Mom gave me a girl
y squinch of the eyes before she turned to Boone. “I’m Candy.” Her voice rose at the end like she wanted him to confirm her name.

“Ma’am.”