He flashed me a look that made me go all warm and fuzzy again inside. “Have I told you today how wonderful you are?”
“No, but we’ve had a hell of a drive, so I forgive you.”
A very nice couple was on hand to greet us and show Dixon where to put the car (the Zust got the parking spot inside the barn, so Dixon had to make do with a freestanding carport arrangement where the couple’s tractor normally sat), then hustled us all inside, where we were given vast quantities of soup and very strong tea.
We changed out of our wet clothing and, since no cameras were around, put on jeans and sweaters. The storm continued to rage, and we spent a few comfortable hours tucked away in the farmhouse, listening to the wind and rain try to beat its way in to us.
“You can sleep with me in my room,” the daughter of the house, a pretty girl of about fourteen named Mirea, said in English when night finally claimed the already dark sky. Fortunately, with the darkness came an abatement of the storm. “Mama said the men can sleep downstairs.”
I looked at Dixon. He nodded. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
As I followed her upstairs, I heard Dixon say to Sanders, “This truce of yours means we’ll all be sleeping in the house, I assume.”
“Of course,” Sanders answered. “Where else would we sleep?”
I didn’t trust him any farther than I could spit, and hoped Dixon didn’t, either.
Mirea chatted away for a good half hour before finally getting into bed. “I’ll just sit here in the chair for a bit,” I told her. “Then I’ll check on the car. You don’t mind if I come and go, do you?”
“No,” she said rather doubtfully. “But I have a nice bed. Mama and Papa just bought it for me.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful, but our old car is very delicate, and it has to be checked a lot to make sure it’s OK,” I fibbed. “And Dixon is tired from doing most of the driving. Whew. Thank god the rain is letting up. I hope it means this storm is finally passing.”
A half hour later I slipped down the back stairs and out through the kitchen, then scurried around to where the Flyer was parked. It was covered up to the windscreen in mud and dead bugs, and the interior was almost as wet as the exterior, but it was home, and I crawled over the front seat to claim the back when I landed on something soft that moved. “What the hell? Dixon?” I asked, freezing, half in horror and half in surprise.
“Paulie?”
The blanket beneath me shifted, and the vague image of Dixon’s face came into view in the dim light from the house. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Protecting the car. I assume you had the same thought as me.”
“That the Esses are bastards and not to be trusted anyfarther than a snail can spit? Yeah, I had that thought.” He shifted so I could sit on the seat. “But you are pooped. You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Neither should you. You’ll be much more comfortable in a real bed.”
“You’re the one who fought the Flyer all day in the rain. You deserve some serious rest.” I made shooing motions at him. “Go back to the house and get some sleep. I’ll guard the car.”
Even through the muted darkness, I could see the jaded look on his face when he said, “I prefer that you sleep in comfort, which means you need to return to the house and get a good night’s sleep.”
I sighed and slapped my hand on the seat. “We aren’t really going to have an argument about who goes back to the house, are we?”
“No, but that’s because I’m too tired. Would you mind moving to the front seat? My leg is cramping with you sitting there.”
“Oh, I like that, Mr. I Want You to Be Comfortable. The front seat isn’t anywhere near as comfy as this one.”
He nudged me with his toes until I gave in and clambered over to the front seat. “I know it’s not, but you’re smaller than me, and you’ll fit there better.”
I peered over the seat back at him. “We could lie there on the comfy seat together, you know.”
“Are you, by chance, propositioning me, madam?” I couldn’t see his eyebrow rise, but I felt it had done so.
“Depends. Have you ever made out in the backseat of a car?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Well, I have. When I was sixteen, and Dad had a newly emigrated friend of a friend whose name was Misha. He was blond and gorgeous and smelled like rum, and man alive, did he teach me things about kissing.”
“Ah, it’s Misha I have to thank for the way your tongue sets fire to my blood?”
