He leans forward, eyes widening eagerly. “Yes, I do. I need your field knowledge. Your instincts. Your ability to move on the private side of the industry. Your connections in America.”
This guy has no idea how thoroughly Ripley’s former life was destroyed. She doesn’t feel like explaining that she hasn’t spoken to a single person from her PhD program since not long after she left.
“Look, I’m sorry you came all the way out here for nothing, but I have responsibilities to my crew, my sponsor, the rancher I’m leasing fossil rights from. I can’t blow off half the summer excavation season to fix the lineup for a conference I’m not even invited to.”
“I would invite you,” he says stiffly.
“If you did,” she says, enunciating every word, “I wouldn’t come.” She swore she’d never set foot at the APS meeting again, and she has no intention of breaking that promise.
“But it’s for”—he takes a desperate-sounding breath—“forscience.There are things that are bigger than you and me, Ripley. Things that are more important than money.”
The insinuation that money is all she cares about is a bit annoying. “Let’s not pretend private collectors are out here robbing stagecoaches and shooting up saloons. And universities and museums have some pretty shady shit to answer for too.”
“Yes, but you must still believe in science. Inknowledge.In what prehistory can teach us about environmental fragility and the importance of biodiversity. If you could read the abstract…” He runs agitated fingers through his hair, the sinking sun limning his dark chestnut curls with gold.
Smithson has the unshakable persistence of all taxonomists, whose idea of fun is wading through an endless ocean of disconnected fragments in the open-source paleontology databases. But Ripley doesn’t have all night. Not even Cara will be able to protect Ripley’s share of Renzo’s incomparable margherita pizza—basil, tomato, and some quantum of garlic that tiptoes right up to the line oftoo muchbut never crosses it—if this conversation keeps going. “How long was your ride out here, Smithson?”
He frowns. “Fifty-one minutes, but—”
She holds out Hoodoo’s reins. “So, it’s getting late. It’s an hour to the ranch house—”
“Fifty-one minutes.”
Ripley can imagine him at a department meeting correcting every tiny inaccuracy with this firm, immovable tone. She should find the mental picture less appealing than she does.
“Noted. The shadows will be getting long pretty soon, and your horse is a drama queen. He’s going to spook at every blade of grass between here and the stable. Unless you want to get thrown in the middle of nowhere, you should get going.” She offers him the reins again.
He turns his head, lips pulled between his teeth like it’s the only way to keep the pesky emotions safely contained. Ripley feels that knot in her stomach she gets when somebody wants something from her and their entire relationship depends on her saying yes whether it’s good for her or not.
“Sorry I can’t help,” she says carefully. “I’m not unsympathetic to your position, Smithson, but—”
“It’sJames,” he says tersely, his eyes pinching at the sides. “My name is James.”
“I thought everyone called you Smithson.”
His features tense, then relax into a bland arrangement. “They do. Of course, you must call me Smithson if you prefer.”
“Okay,” she says, trying not to feel terrible. He looks so dejected with his hat in his hand like that. But she’s allowed to say no.Hecertainly had no trouble turning her down when she asked for his help.
He nods in a measured cadence, seeming to sense when he’s beaten. He settles his hat back on his head, his long fingers splayed gracefully across the crown, then swings into the saddle.
He’d be great on a dig,she thinks, despite herself. Those hands would do the finest, fiddliest excavation with endless patience and dexterity. It’s sexy work to watch, and it’s not just Ripley who thinks so, judging by the chronic hooking-up on excavations.
She shakes her head to dislodge the image, a touch disturbed. Her crush on Smithson should be decisively over.
“Hey,” she says, gripped by a sudden impulse. “Why’d you ride out here instead of driving?”
“Ah.” He gives her a small smile. “That’s a long story, I’m afraid, and I’m given to understand my horse needs to get home. Another time, perhaps.” He nudges Hoodoo toward the ranch house, then turns in the saddle, looking at Ripley. The lowering afternoon sun lights him so he shines against the deep blue sky, his face wistful like a lonesome cowboy’s in a country song. “Your paper on the habitat and migration patterns of avian ancestors post-Pangaea was brilliant, by the by. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
That paper was never published. Ripley had killed it herself. The only way Smithson could’ve seen it was if he’d read the file she attached to her drunken email.
A thousand questions crowd her brain. Had he read the paper when she sent it? Or had it still been in his inbox three years later,waiting for him to go back and open it? In Atlanta, he thought she’d stolen someone else’s work—so why is he now calling it “yourpaper” and saying it’s brilliant?
It’s so confusing, she forgets she’s not helping him. “Did you try Althea Franklin?”
“Parental leave,” he says. “Twins.”
“Josie Yang? Quentin Gillard? Raj Ahluwalia?”
