Chapter Sixteen
Yeah, sometimes life dealt a rough hand, but it was okay to feel hurt by it, Rose thought, and Toby didn’t think it was. With his parents both gone and his brothers scattered across the state, life was no doubt lonely with no one to lean on—she knew that sentiment well. Travis was hurt from war, and Tyler no doubt had some grief in his story if he was raising two sons alone. But Toby was hurting, too. No wonder he blanketed his real self in a shroud of jokes and poor taste.
But that kiss… Wow. It had been toe popping. She’d felt electricity as he’d gripped her hips, undulated against her so she could feel his arousal, and showed her a peek of the truth beneath his shell. He’d called her a guy’s fantasy. He’d given his all and had seemed to restrain himself by a thread. And now with this offering about his mother, Rose wondered about him more. But was he grounded enough for her? Or was he still unpredictable? Would he revert to his old ways the moment the going got tough if they took this attraction deeper?
Gear down, girl, she told herself. We can take it slow, like he suggested. But then, what happens when I return to Austin? Would Toby remain faithful? Or would he jump back into bed with the first woman to pique his interest when he got desperate and missed her? Stunned, she looked away. She knew unfaithfulness had affected her, but she’d never realized she was so scarred by it. Losing her mom, Sage’s birth father using her, Howard’s cheating… Why couldn’t someone just stay?
She couldn’t bear to involve herself and Sage with someone who could steal both their hearts, only to betray their trust. She’d never forgive herself for hurting Sage.
Toby cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had descended upon them.
“Anyway, the star of this show is in that big box down there. I don’t have any place to lay it out, but feel free to examine it. I’m gonna grab some coffee and then get to work. Got a vet coming out to check on one of my cows soon. Help yourself to the coffee if you want it, and I’ll grab some tea next time I hit up the store. You got a key to lock up if you leave before I get back. See y’all tonight.”
He walked out, his hands jammed in his pockets, and Rose felt a twinge of sadness that he was gone. His absence left a void where things had been complete before. She turned toward the pot, her excitement momentarily restored. Reaching down, she slid the box gently from the shelf and pulled the lid up. Inside, was the pot.
“Ohmigod,” she whispered to herself and breathed out long and hard.
Was this really happening? She rummaged through her backpack and pulled out the folder in which she kept her old supervisor’s black-and-white photo, holding it beside the pot, a round bowl the size of a beach ball with a wide mouth. She scrutinized the photo for identifiable designs. There, that red geometric shape. It was faint in the photograph, but, looking at the pot, she saw it along the side, partially obstructed by the padding packed around it. Fearing touching it without gloves on, she craned her neck and tilted the box to get the best view she could. The clay looked brittle. It could use both some sample testing from the residue inside and a conservator’s touch. So could the wooden spear hafting in the drawer.
How would Toby take to the idea of handing his collection over to a professional or bringing someone in to manage these items? She was qualified, having done an archiving internship in New Mexico one summer curating Hopi pottery, but it would be arrogant to recommend herself. Many of the people living out here worried about folks from the big city swooping in and confiscating their property. No doubt, if the Legacy sat on a secret system of rock shelters with rare art, the Dixons harbored a similar fear of this treasure of human history being ransacked or stolen.
She pulled out her camera and snapped several photos, then pulled out her graph-paper notebook and made a scale drawing, taking her time measuring the pot and the size of the visible designs and preparing a reference key. She’d ask Toby if she could create a file with the Texas Archaeological Research Laboratory and assign it and the rest of the artifacts some ID numbers. Once she was done admiring the pot, she carefully slid it back onto the shelf and spent some time looking at the other artifacts.
Finally, she packed up and pulled out her phone. Three text messages. All from Howie asking where she was, that the crew was back and they were setting up dinner prep. She glanced at the time. Four thirty? She’d blown through two hours.
“Hey, Toby?” she called out as she packed up her things.
No one answered, and she flipped off the closet light and closed his office door. She strode out into the quiet great room. The lights were off, and afternoon sun was shining orange through the large windows overlooking the mountain.
“Toby?” Still, no one answered.
She meandered into the kitchen and took a spot of coffee, then pulled out her phone to text Howie back.
Rose:Hey. I’m up at the main house. Mr. Dixon stored some information about the panther shaman site, and I’ve been reviewing it.
Howie:With your phone off?
Rose:I must have been in a dead patch. Texts show up, but my phone didn’t buzz.
Howie didn’t reply.
Rose:I’m on my way back. Just finishing a cup of coffee.
Howie:Since when do you drink coffee? We’ve been here for twenty minutes, and there was no sign of you. You and Mr. Dickson having a great time?
Ugh. Jealous ex syndrome strikes again. She’d had no way of knowing exactly when the crew would get back from Fort Stockton, and he’d written “Dickson” on purpose, she knew it. She could read the tone of sarcasm. I don’t have time for his childishness. Her love life was none of his business, especially when he’d made it clear he believed in free love, but maybe even Howie could sense that there was something more going on here and that Toby could become someone special to her if she fostered the relationship instead of killing the seed being planted. And that maybe Howie had screwed up when he’d casually cast her aside. She’d never pandered to him. Never cried or begged to understand why he couldn’t be monogamous. She’d quickly realized her attraction to him had been superficial and cut that tie like a box cutter on tape. Clearly, her discarding had rankled him. Clearly, he’d never gotten over it and he was pissed someone else was finally making a move.
Jerk. She couldn’t forgive Howard for what he’d done. Nor could she forgive Sage’s biological father. She’d never expected a relationship there, but that man, too, had cheated on his fiancée and then so casually discarded the child whom had come of his escapade. Unease burgeoned in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t let herself become interested in Toby—too late. She should nip this in the bud. Should. But even now, she knew she wouldn’t. His attention felt too good, like cool spring water after a drought.
She took her mug to the sink, when she saw Toby outside, walking a cow on a lead around the barn whose hoof was bandaged, while a veterinarian—carrying a leather satchel of supplies and wearing a stethoscope around his neck—stood, arms crossed, observing the animal. He maneuvered her between two posts and hooked her halter into the crossties, then went around the animal and squatted down, listening with an intent furrow on his brow to the vet who’d lifted her hoof and seemed to be explaining the diagnosis. She admired his rear. It was a fine one, and when they’d kissed, she’d been only an impulse away from grasping it to feel his firm cheeks for herself.
She splashed the last of her coffee in the drain, washed her mug, and left to fix dinner, anxious to be done with it so she could come back for the movie tonight and, maybe, a bit more of that cowboy outside. He’d given her a taste, and no amount of cautioning herself to be careful would sate her growing appetite.