He scoured a palm over his face. Groaned. There was a T-shirt order to sort, coolers to prep, a first-aid kit to restock. Ms. Shirley, a godsend, normally would have done it. This was his second year hosting the little buggers. Last summer he’d led three camp groups on the hike, and the program had asked to return this year, too, which is what had given him the idea for the Junior Ranchers. The Legacy stood on a prime piece of natural beauty, and he was fortunate to finally be able to share it with people who cared, without his pops putting his foot down and turning everyone away.
Toby pressed down the accelerator and glanced to the broken radio screen. What time was it? His cell phone was on the floorboard, and he snagged it. Thankfully it was still half-juiced, showing the time at barely after seven a.m. His lips flattened into a thin line. All right. He could manage it. It would be a really rough day, but he had just enough time to eat and get home.
If only the urn hadn’t come yesterday—
“Shut up,” he growled to himself as he straddled the Texas speedbump on the road—poor little armadillo—and finally rolled up to the local diner.
The lot was full, with three RVs in addition to the few regulars’ vehicles, including a local cop and a neighboring rancher. The lot wasn’t that big to begin with, and except for a spot on the end that no one had tried to use because a van had parked over the line, there was no place for Toby’s Bronco.
He roared into the lone spot, riding over the curb to make room. Okay, so it was annoying when people did a lousy job of parking, he would admit it, glaring at the offending vehicle that’d stolen two spots. But to his credit, the Amigo’s lot never filled up. The happy-ass-windshield-note writer could have parked somewhere else other than right beside him. He snatched up his cutoff T-shirt from where he’d tossed it upon leaving the motel and made a beeline for the front door, lifting his Stetson to drape the rumpled fabric over his head, then plopping it back down onto his mop of unwashed hair. Shit, he’d never found his boxer briefs. These jeans were gonna chafe his balls like sandpaper on kiwis.
The noise from the unusual crowd at Stella’s hit him in the frontal lobe as soon as he opened the door. He squeezed between a herd of customers, young people who he’d never seen before, and found an empty stool at the counter, glancing up to see the now-fading photo of his brother, Travis, from fifteen years ago, in his Class As before he disembarked for the Middle East. Nestled around it were photos of Alpine’s finest who’d served in the military, a tribute wall Stella had started after 9/11. Dang, Trav had been such a baby-face then. He’d been so friendly and talkative, until the war had stolen his innocence and returned him to the States a silent man.
“Well, well, if it ain’t Toby Dixon.” Stella smiled, taking in his disheveled look as she refilled coffee at the end of the counter, thankfully cutting off his wistful memories.
She made her way to him, plopped a mug in front of him, and filled it to the top with her elixir of life. Black. Hot. Strong. Though this morning he might need to jumpstart his engines with a little sugar, too.
“Haven’t seen you in here in a while,” she said. “You only pay me a visit when you’re having a rough morning after a loca night.”
He didn’t acknowledge the comment as he surveyed the room while tipping the sugar dispenser over his brew: the regulars, the cop at the end of the counter who he’d gone to high school with, and the two tables in the window filled with college-aged students on some sort of a trip.
“The RV culprits,” he muttered to himself, nursing a sip.
He couldn’t recall any festivals nearby, especially in the heat of June. And who traveled this time of year to West Texas who didn’t have to travel? Only students and professors. Anyone else had enough brains to avoid heat stroke and put off their trip until October at least.
They looked scientific, geared out in Columbia and Patagonia—and a tank top on that one chick. She’s gonna be nursing a Texas-size sunburn—with just enough edgy style to indicate they came from a metropolis. Because if they’d come off a ranch, they’d have on some work boots, sturdy denim, and dirt.
“Kinda busy for a Tuesday before work, ain’t it?” Toby muttered, taking another sip.
“Yup,” Stella remarked, hanging an order for her B&G on the swiveling ticket holder without asking him.
In no time, she slapped his breakfast onto the counter. He took off his hat and propped it on his knee, cutting into the smothered biscuits while taking another generous sip of coffee that had finally cooled to a drinkable temperature. He loaded his mouth, chewed, swallowed, repeated—the only way to cope with the intrusive din, which irritated his headache like nails on a chalkboard through an amplifier.
“Some folks need to take it down some decibels,” he grumbled.
“Maybe you should just get enough sleep,” Stella retorted.
Again, he ignored her comment. Stella always spoke her mind, and he liked that about her. He washed another bite down with a liberal swallow of coffee, when a laugh caught his attention. Gentle. Sweet. Melodic. And the only sound that didn’t grate on his last damn nerve. He turned over his shoulder, licking a smear of gravy on his lips as his fork hung suspended, dripping, to locate the source.
He found it. Standing with her back to him was a woman—dark, curly hair tumbling past her shoulders, full of natural bounce just like her laugh; hands jammed into the pockets of her North Face hoodie, unzipped (the days might’ve been boiling, but the mornings were sometimes cool); worn boot-cut jeans that hugged a pert little rear and long, slender legs, ending in scuffed hiking boots. Cute, yes, but totally not his type. For starters, too much clothing.
Just wait till the sun is blazing, sweetheart, and you’ll shed that North Face like a prom dress at the after party.
He turned back to his food, pushing his bite around his puddle of gravy, and kept his ear open to eavesdrop on tidbits of conversation.
“Professor So-and-So…” “You know how he is about grading…” “The department pays the TAs slave wages…”
Grad schoolers, as he’d suspected. He could spot the academics a mile away, considering he’d once toiled in that academic hell.
“Much younger than early Holocene…” “Probably protohistoric, based on pottery designs…” Okay, now they were just talking shop, fancy terms most people didn’t understand. Typical pretentious bullsh—“Rose.”
He thought. North Face Girl with the wonderful laugh was named Rose.
The name was cute, kind of like her. He cut the remaining bite of biscuit, but curiosity got the better of him and his head snaked back around to look at her. He wanted to see her face. A couple of her companions caught onto his staring and leaned closer to mutter to her, flashing looks his way. And then she glanced back at him. Their gazes locked.
For that split second, Toby’s headache lulled. He stopped chewing, even though a gravy-laden crumb clung to the corner of his mouth. He turned back toward his plate and made a concerted effort not to look back again. Those hazel-brown eyes, widely set; long lashes; soft, full lips—not an ounce of makeup—would stay with him permanently. She might not have been dressed for the club, but she was beautiful. She looked smart, natural, like a model for a hiking gear ad, except her gear actually looked worn down from use.
“See something you like, mi querido?” Stella said in Spanish, leaning into his ear.