My eyes don’t leave Duke until he’s out of view.
“I messed up,” is all I can say.
put your red dress on
ROXANNE
After the Fire Circle,Duke sticks to this new rule about keeping his distance, which would be perfectly fine if it wasn’t for the fact that I completely and utterly miss him. Which is absolute nonsense! How can I miss him? I don’t even know him.
As much as I tried to convince myself of this, I know deep down, it’s not entirely true. In a short time, I’ve learned that he loves Christopher Cross, and he doesn’t like mushy tomatoes. I know that his favorite color must be green because he’s always wearing a shade of it. I curse myself every morning I wake up in his house and agonize over the fact that he’s not there.
Instead of writing and working on my pitch, I tell myself the story is still not complete without his perspective. He still hasn’t signed his interview consent form. I need his story for my pitch, which is the only reason it’s imperative that I speak with him.
The next morning, I spot Duke outside the barn, saddle slung over one shoulder, of course, looking hotter than ever. He’s talking with Topper and Stedman, but as I approach he starts to walk away.
I call to him, but he doesn’t answer so I pick up my pace.
“Duke, do you … do you have a moment?”
“Mornin’, Roxanne.” He tosses me a polite glance but doesn’t stop.
“Good morning, I … listen, it’s so silly that you’re put out of your house. I can?—”
“I’m fine with Topper, ma’am.”
“Would you have time later to chat about some questions I have?”
“Packed schedule today.” He taps the brim of his hat and keeps moving toward the paddock.
So that’s how it’s been between us. Friendly, but icy, with Duke mostly looking right through me.
Later that evening, I’m doing my thing where I type out sentences and then delete them when my phone buzzes. It’s my mother. I’m so happy to hear from her since she’s been out of reach for the last few weeks.
The screen flickers for a second, then steadies, and there she is, sitting in what looks like a modest hotel room with bare walls and a ceramic teacup in hand. Her gray-streaked hair is twisted up like it always is when she’s working in hot climates, and there’s a tired kind of peace in her expression.
“Finally,” I say, leaning back in my desk chair. “I thought you’d been swallowed whole by a diplomatic crisis.”
She lets out a laugh. “You’re not far off. I’ve been on the Sudanese border the last three weeks. No Wi-Fi, no plumbing, and a baby goat tried to eat my satellite phone. What about you, my dear? You look … different.”
I sit up straighter. “Different how?”
She cocks her head, eyes narrowing like she’s searching my face for something. My scar. The soft pink curve of it visible above the neckline of my tank top. She covers her mouth with her hands.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Sweetie, your scar,” she says. “You’re showing it!”
I glance down. “Oh, yes.”
“What prompted you to stop hiding it?”
I’m quiet for a beat as I think on how to tell her. “It’s a long story that involves me almost drowning.”
She sits up straight. “What? … drowning?”
I put my hand up. “I’m fine, thanks to the man who owns the ranch.”
“Is this the same man you’re in love with?”
