“What’s in your bags?” Ripley asks. “More clothes like”—she twirls a finger at his pants and shirt—“these?”
“This is what I like to wear. And I have my riding clothes.”
“You need not to look like you just finished a polo match.” She pictures him a little sweaty after a game, his cheeks flushed, wearing that double-curved grin. This is a mistake. She plows onward, heat climbing her neck. “You can’t be so…” She waves an irritated hand at him. “Pretty.”
“Why not?You’repretty,” he shoots back, then blinks. His cheeks take on a post–polo match shade of dusty pink. It makes him look younger than thirty-four. Appealingly unsure of himself. “I mean…I didn’t…sorry.”
Ripley ignores the swoop in her stomach. She doesn’t like being called pretty. Usually.
“If you’re coming to the dig, you need proper clothes. And tools.” Nobody on her site fucks around with stupid shit likeWill’s Bowie knife. “Come on. Let’s get you something to wear,” she says, jerking her head toward the Jurassic Park doors.
“Rightnow?” He seems sort of stunned.
“Well, the stores are closed tomorrow, so it can’t really wait. Tip your driver and send him home, Smithson. You and I are going to town.”
7
Downtown Hercules, Montana—“Herc” to the locals—is a four-block strip of boxy, single-story concrete buildings, the big sky pouring into the stingy spaces between them. Look to the west, past the fossil shops, outdoor outfitters, and jewelers with windows full of amber, and you’ll see the Rockies rise with jagged blue brilliance. Look to the east, and you’ll see the Great Plains unroll all the way to the horizon.
Ripley’s vintage Dodge Charger, a cheery punch of Daytona yellow with a strip of black muscle down the middle, sticks out in the forest of pickup trucks on Main Street.
“Careful when you open the door. The paint job is original,” she instructs Smithson, assuming he’s awake. He seemed to be asleep or meditating the whole way here.
Ripley gets out of the car and glances at her phone to see if Cara texted her back.
Ripley:
Smithson’s on board for the funding thing. He’s joining the dig too. Taking him to town for gear.
Cara:
YAYYYYYYYY
Cara:
Wait. You know you’re not allowed to go shopping on your own!!!
Ripley has trouble in stores. She tends to see opportunities that she convinces herself won’t come again, and she ends up buying way too much. She didn’t consider that Smithson might witness this, but it’s too late now.
Ripley:
I won’t be on my own. Smithson will be here.
Cara:
I’m mad you’re going to watch that man try on clothes and you didn’t invite me.
For some reason, the thought of Cara flirting with Smithson over sensible clothing choices makes Ripley feel strange.
Ripley:
We probably shouldn’t text like this now that he’s our colleague.
Cara:
You’re right. Keep it to voice only.
Ripley looks up and realizes Smithson’s still in the car. His long fingers are suspiciously white-knuckled atop his tweed-clad thighs. His olive skin is minty green.
