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“You said you were from Louisiana. What town?”
“A wide spot in the road,” Gray said. “You’ve never heard of it.”
“I got good marks in geography.”
“Grady.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Gray drove intently, both hands gripping the wheel. They were headed southwest, toward the Virginia countryside. The scenery was a panorama of rolling pastures, horse farms, and forests, but neither of them seemed to notice.
These were the first words they’d exchanged since leaving Daily’s neighborhood. Unable to stand another mile of hostile silence, and her own troubled thoughts, Barrie had broached what she hoped would be a neutral topic.
“In terms of growing up there, how was it?”
“Fine.”
“Good childhood?”
“It was okay.”
“Bad?”
“Did I say bad?”
“Then it was good?”
“It was okay. Okay?”
“You don’t have to bite my head off. I’m just curious about where a man like you comes from.”
“A man like me?” he repeated sardonically. “What kind of man am I?”
It was a moment before she came up with a rejoinder she liked. “Tall.”
He actually cracked a smile, albeit a fleeting one.
“Parents?” she asked.
“Two.”
“Give me a break, Bondurant.”
After a moment he said, “My mother and father were killed when a spin-off tornado from a hurricane struck their place of business.”
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “How old were you?”
“Nine. Thereabouts.”
She had a hard time grasping that—not that his parents had been casualties of a storm, but that he’d actually been a child. She couldn’t imagine him as a carefree little boy, playing with other children, engaging in games at birthday parties, ripping open presents with family members gathered around the Christmas tree.
“That morning in Wyoming, you told me you learned ranching from your father.”
“He always kept a herd of beef cattle. But he also ran a fix-it shop in town. Wasn’t an engine in the state he couldn’t fix. And Mother was almost as good with a wrench as he was.”
Barrie noticed a rare softness about his stern mouth. “You loved them.”
He shrugged. “I was a kid. Kids always love their parents.”