I kept my finds in an old box at the foot of my bed: a soda can with a bright, blocky ’80s logo; grainy ’50s newsprint ads for bustiers; a cigarette pack stamped withBull Durham Smoking Tobacco, Best for Three Generations. Once, I even uncovered a pair of miner’s blue jean overalls left in a heap, dust and mud caked along the hems, as if their owner had simply stepped out of them and walked away from his life.
When Logan returns, we hike up the steep incline of Main Street toward Settler Square, where a large copper statue—so new there’s not even a tinge of green—stands in the center. “Is that a ginormous statue of Billy Blackstone?”
The statue’s a full-sized handsome cowboy with a villainous glint in his eyes. I’ve got to give props to the artist for capturing his spirit. Pennies are lined up around the base of the statue.
“Lots of fortune and treasure hunters come to see if there’s anywhere else that he may have hidden his treasure,” Logan explains. “They leave a penny for good luck.”
There are also a couple of satiny lingerie pieces stuffed into the hat in his hand. I raise an eyebrow at Logan, who shrugs.
“He was also known for writing some pretty racy letters and poetry to his girlfriend, Lula Maude.”
I’m once again struck by how attractive Logan is. Today, he’s in a navy shirt that brings out the blue in his eyes. His hair is combed, so different from the messy cowlicked mop of his childhood. I used to smooth those stubborn tufts down when we were kids, innocently thrilled when his eyes fluttered shut at the touch. Does he still like it when someone plays with his hair?
Logan’s staring at me, and I realize I need to respond. “Ooh,Lula Maude. She sounds hot.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
Logan laughs. “We don’t know what she looked like or who she really was, but his poetry was quite…descriptive. I’ve got a copy of his poems back at the house, if you’d like to read them.”
“Uh, sure,” I say. Not sure I need to read erotic poetry while sleeping in the room next to my hot ex-boyfriend, but why not? Live fast, die young, and all that.
“Want to grab some dinner? I’m starving.” Logan presses his lips together. “I’ll buy, but I choose the place. Poquito Poquito. They still do those amazing all-day breakfast burritos.”
“Ugh, with the hash browns?” I still dream about those burritos. They were cheap, filling, and I could usually scrounge up enough change from my mom’s purse to buy one or two a week.
“Yep, the hash browns.”
“I don’t know.” My mouth already salivates from the memory, but it’s a local place where we could run into someone I know. At the very least, I would see the Juarez family, although I only knew them from all the years of breakfast burrito runs.
“Come on. Isn’t this why you wore a hat? You’re practically invisible. I’ve been squinting all afternoon trying to find you, you’re so well camouflaged.”
“Har har,” I say. “All right.”
“It’ll be all right. We’ll order at the walk-up to-go window.”
Cynthia Juarez cries out when she sees us approach the window. Then she disappears.
“We should just go,” I whisper to Logan. I don’t need to suffer the embarrassment of being refused service.
But Cynthia bursts out the side door and hustles toward us.I hold up my hands, bracing for an attack that never comes. Instead, she hugs me tight, babbling in a mix of Spanish and English. “Where did you go? We thought the worst! Mi pobrecita.You want breakfast burrito with hash browns?”
“Yes,” I say, shooting a bewildered look at Logan, who just smiles thinly.
“So happy you’re back,” Cynthia says. “Wait here.” She hurries back inside.
“I don’t understand,” I say finally.
“What don’t you understand?”
“I thought… Well, I thought I’d been seen as the villain.”
Logan frowns. “Youdid nothing wrong.”
It’s such an absurd statement, I don’t know how to respond. Of course I did. Everything about it was unforgivable.
I had slept with a married man.
Cynthia may not have known, I realize, as she hands us our burritos and a bag of chips and salsa. The language barrier might’ve kept her from knowing everything that happened before I left.
Still, it’s not exactly comforting that my burrito lady recognizes me even with my hat and sunglasses. So much for my disguise. If anyone else recognizes me, word could get back to the town marshal, Rick Dawson, that I’m back. That’s the last thing I need.
