Say You'll Stay And Marry Me

The boy’s mouth fell open slightly, revealing even more of the braces. “You’re going to walk to your truck?”

“I guess so.” Sara smiled. “I didn’t pass many taxis on my way here.”

“But you’re not going to fix it yourself,” he protested.

“Sure I am. I’m pretty handy with a screwdriver. It shouldn’t be hard.”

He shook his head, adamant. “You can’t walk all that way alone.” He sounded truly concerned, and Sara was touched.

“It’s not that far.” She gave him another reassuring smile.

But he kept shaking his head, and fine brown hair sifted into his eyes. “If my dad found out I let a woman walk off alone to fix a truck by herself, I’d be mucking stalls for a month. No, ma’am, you better wait here while I go get my dad. He’ll drive you back.”

“No, really, I’ll—”

But he seemed determined. “You wait right here, ma’am. I’ll go fetch my dad. He’s up in the north field fixing some fence so it might be a minute or two. You just make yourself comfortable. Have that orange juice. I’ll be right back.”

He locked the register, grabbed a hat from a hook near the door and disappeared into the attached garage. Sara heard the roar of an engine and looked out the door. The boy had appeared in front of the station riding a three-wheeled motorcycle, a sturdy all-terrain vehicle with heavy, wide tires. He gestured to her and she pulled open the glass door and stepped outside.

“If anybody comes wanting to buy gas, you better have ’em wait for me to get back,” he yelled over the engine. “There’s not another gas station for forty miles, so they’re not going anywhere.” With a metallic grin and wave, he skidded around the side of the station and disappeared.

Sara rounded the corner after him and watched him head up a gravel lane toward the house. She had to smile at the sight of the boy, in jeans, cowboy hat and scuffed boots—every inch a cowboy—seated on the noisy machine as comfortably as on a horse. S-shaped irrigating tubes and a muddy shovel were strapped to the back of the ATV, bouncing at every rut.

Modern ranching. All helicopters and three-wheelers and million-dollar equipment. Not like when she was a kid growing up on a small farm on the outskirts of Denver, she thought with a twinge of nostalgia, when Denver still had traces of the real, honest-to-goodness cow town it used to be. Denver certainly had its share of cowboys even now, but that had more to do with fashion than with livelihood. She knew most of the Wranglers she saw had never touched a saddle.

Sara got a juice from the cooler and returned to the wooden bench that ran along the side of the station. She stretched out her legs to wait for her rescuer. It appeared chivalry wasn’t dead, after all, she thought, taking a sip of the cold juice. Or at least not up here in the middle of Wyoming. Maybe there was still a sliver left of that famous cowboy code of the West. In spite of the ATV, the whole place seemed to be caught in some kind of 1950s time warp. She fanned aside a fly that buzzed lazily near her ear. The big old farmhouse, with its wide veranda just made for a porch swing and its huge swath of lawn, complete with shaggy lilac bushes, looked like something out of an old black-and-white western.

A memory drifted up, nudged to life by the Hollywood setting. Goodness, she hadn’t thought of that endless summer in years. She’d been thirteen, horse crazy like all her friends, and for some reason she’d taken to reading Zane Grey books. She’d read every one, staying up long into the night when the house was as dark and silent as the heroes Grey wrote about. That teenage Sara had decided the long, lean, slow-talking cowboy was her kind of man. The hero was the same in every one of those classic westerns—concerned about his horse, concerned about his honor and devoted to his one true love. He never spoke more than a word or two to that true love throughout the book, but Sara had read volumes into the way he’d rolled his cigarette or the way he’d squinted into the horizon.

Sara squinted at the figure she saw appear from behind the ranchhouse, a horse and rider trotting down the lane toward her—her imaginary cowboy come to life. A man on a black horse, a man who sat in the saddle like he’d been born to it, a man with spurs, she saw as he reined to a stop in front of her and jumped to the ground with a jingle. Faded jeans, cracked leather belt, denim work shirt rolled back from his wrists, dark brown hair curling from underneath a dusty gray cowboy hat, face hidden by its brim—Zane couldn’t have done better himself.

“Mac Wallace,” he said, striding toward her. He slipped off a leather work glove and extended his hand.

“Sara Shepherd,” she replied, noting the calluses as his big hand swallowed hers. Mac Wallace was several inches taller than she, and she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes, midnight blue eyes with intriguing lines fanning from the corners, testimony to years of outdoor work. Now that his hat no longer shadowed his deeply tanned face, she could see thick eyebrows, broad cheekbones, a square chin and the beginnings of an afternoon stubble. She breathed in the smell of horse and man sweat and was reminded once again of childhood summers.

“I hear you’re having trouble with a water hose.”

Sara nodded. “I told your son I could handle it, but he was kind enough to offer some help. I don’t want to take you away from your work if you’re—”

“No problem. We’ll have you back on the road in no time.”

The sound of the ATV returning caused the gelding to shy, and Mac quickly stepped back to grab the reins. “Damn machines. I hate them.”

He soothed the horse with one hand while he made an impatient slicing motion with a finger across his throat. His son immediately cut the engine and coasted the rest of the way to the station to join them.

“Michael, take Justice to his stall and have your brother rub him down. I’m going to go fix Ms. Shepherd’s truck.” As the boy obediently swung into the saddle, Mac turned to Sara. “Do you have any water to refill the radiator?”

Sara nodded. “Five gallons.”

“Antifreeze?”

She shook her head. “I better get a gallon or I’ll overheat in the mountains for sure.”

He escorted her inside the station, and she pulled her credit card from the back pocket of her jeans and laid it on the counter. Mac punched buttons on the cash register and handed her the receipt the machine spit out. She scribbled her signature.

“My truck’s out front next to the mailbox,” he said. “I’ll get that hose and meet you there.” He disappeared into the garage.

Sara looked at the receipt as she walked past the gas pumps to the gray truck parked beside the mailbox at the edge of the highway. She frowned.

“Mr. Wallace?” she began as he came toward her, minus the spurs but with a gallon of antifreeze in one hand and a black rubber hose in the other.

“Mac,” he corrected, throwing them in the back of the truck and moving to open the door for her.

“Mac. This receipt doesn’t show a charge for your repair service. Or the orange juice, either.” He was very close. He stood beside her with a hand on the open door, his arm making a protective circle. Sara looked up from the receipt and was startled to find herself acutely, unexpectedly aware of the breadth of him, the warmth, the masculine, horsey smell. She felt a ridiculous urge to move closer into that circle. How long had it been since she’d stood, even casually, this near a man? Disturbed, she held out the white piece of paper.

But he didn’t even glance at it. His eyes met hers. “There’s no charge for being neighborly, ma’am.”

“I thought making a profit from another’s misfortune was the American way. And it’s Sara.”

“Well—Sara—that might be, but it’s not my way.”

She cocked her head and studied him, curious. Yet another example of cowboy chivalry, that fabled code? Finally, she said, “Then I thank you very much.”

“My pleasure.”

She found herself reluctant to look away from those dark, dark blue eyes. The moment lengthened, lasted for a heartbeat longer than it should have, that split second between a man and a woman when a look slides over the edge toward awareness. She was so aware of Mac Wallace she felt heat on her face and knew it came from more than the Wyoming sun. Embarrassed by her reaction, she folded the slip of paper, turning it again and again into neat squares, methodically creasing the edges, then tucked it into her pocket Eyes lowered, she quickly stepped into the truck.

Mac shut the door and crossed behind the truck to the driver’s side, smiling at the blush that had tinged the woman’s cheeks, accenting her delicate features. He might spend his days surrounded by kids, cows and sweat-soaked leather, but he could still recognize healthy attraction in a woman’s eyes when he saw it. Damn right. He pulled taut the blanket that covered the worn spot on the seat and slid behind the wheel.

“My truck’s a couple of miles up that way.” Sara pointed north.

“Headed for Yellowstone?” he asked as he turned onto the highway.

“Yes, I’m going to spend a few days there.”

“Are you staying at the lodge? It’s quite a place.” He had spent his honeymoon there. A wonderful beginning to a dismal marriage.

Sara shook her head. “I’ve got a camper on my truck. But I do want to see the lodge. I’ve seen pictures of it and it looks charming.”

Mac took his eyes from the road and looked at her more closely, wondering why a woman would choose to camp alone in Yellowstone. Especially a woman who used words like charming. He studied her profile as she watched the passing sagebrush from the window. She looked a couple years younger than his forty-five, and no makeup and the way her light brown hair was pulled into a ponytail made her appear younger still. Her features were fine, with an aquiline nose and high cheekbones that spoke of afternoon teas and painted china. Charming. Her patrician features were at odds with her jeans and tennis shoes, and he noted the way the tan on her left arm was more pronounced than on her right, typical of someone who spent a lot of time driving with an arm propped on an open window. Contradictions intrigued Mac.

“Are you from around here?” he asked.

“No, I’m from—” Sara hesitated, intriguing him even more. “I’m originally from Denver,” she finished.

“You’re not so far from home, then,” he said.

“Not yet.”