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“Quit fighting it,” Emma said softly. “Nothing bad will happen if you close your eyes for a few minutes.”
That’s what she thinks, he told himself. She didn’t know any better.
He tried to shake off the sleepiness so he could take over at the wheel. But a merciful darkness drew near, buffeting him like a gentle current. And then, finally, there was nothing.
MAX AND PRESTON SLEPT through the next hour. With a blues CD playing in the background—something Emma was surprised to find in Preston’s odd assortment of music—she relaxed for the first time since leaving San Diego. Manuel would never expect her to be traveling in a brown minivan with a man. It didn’t hurt that the color of Max’s hair and eyes was so similar to Preston’s. The three of them weren’t likely to raise any eyebrows—they looked like a little family.
How her son could resemble a stranger more than his own father, Emma didn’t understand. Because of Max’s unusual coloring, Manuel’s mother had often intimated that he couldn’t possibly belong to Manuel. But Emma knew she could prove it with a paternity test if she wanted to. She’d never slept with anyone else.
“What are you thinking about?”
Emma blinked and glanced over to find Preston studying her from beneath his thick, gold-tipped eyelashes. “Nothing, why?”
“You were frowning.”
Manuel’s family had a tendency to bring out the worst in her. But there was no reason to go into all of that. She and Preston were sharing a ride, nothing more. He’d drop her off in Salt Lake City late this evening, and she’d never see him again. Then she’d have to plot her next move—with no luggage, no car and little money—from the valley at the base of the Wasatch Mountains where she and Manuel had once attended the Winter Olympics.
“We’re only forty minutes or so outside Eureka,” she said, instead of responding to his comment about her expression.
“Have you ever been to Eureka?” he asked.
“I’ve been to Eureka, California, but not Eureka, Nevada. I’ve never traveled this road before.”
He gazed out at the scenery. “They call this the Loneliest Road in America.”
“Really?”
“Interstate 80 has more traffic.”
“So why’d you choose Highway 50?”
“I don’t like crowds.”
“I’ve noticed.” She purposely spoke in a biting tone. “I’ve never met anyone who hates children as much as you do. You remind me of Ebenezer Scrooge.”
She thought she saw him wince, but she could feel little real sympathy for someone who didn’t like Max.
“You’re getting your stories screwed up,” he said. “Scrooge hated Christmas.”
“I don’t have anything screwed up. He was a miserly old man who hated everyone, especially children.”
“I could’ve left you in Fallon,” he pointed out.
Emma had to concede that was true. Maybe he was helping them grudgingly, but at least he was helping them. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t say anything. He kept his face averted but she could see his reflection in the glass: the marked angle of his cheekbone, the squareness of his stubbly jaw, the slight cleft in his chin.
“Have you been on this road a lot?” she asked.
His focus didn’t change from the desert surrounding them. “I’ve been all over Nevada in the past seven months, although I’ve mostly stayed in Fallon.”
“But you didn’t get a job or buy a house there?”
Finally he looked over at her. “No, I usually stayed at Maude’s.”
From the appearance of his van, he’d been living in motels for quite some time. She wanted to ask what had happened to him, why he didn’t seem to have any roots. But she knew he wouldn’t take kindly to the question, so she resorted to something less personal. “The towns along this road look sad to me, like they’re dying.”
“The mines have closed down, but the people out here are tough,” he said. “They’ll make it.”
She considered him against the backdrop of the monotonous landscape. “I didn’t think so when I first saw you, but…you seem to fit in here.”
“I look like the miner type to you?”
“Not at all.”
“So what’s the connection?”
When she didn’t answer right away, he grimaced. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“I’m Scrooge, remember? You think my soul’s as barren as the land around us—or something equally flattering.”
“No. Actually, I think you and the desert possess a sort of…stark beauty,” she said.
His eyebrows lifted. “Beauty?”
She chuckled. “Does that offend your masculinity?”
“It surprises me.”
“Why?”
“You have to ask? I haven’t shaved for a couple days. I can’t even remember the last time I had a haircut.”
“I’m not talking about your hair.” She made a point of eyeing his T-shirt and holey jeans. “Or your fashion sense.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Your face. Your body.”
Even Emma heard the frank admiration in her voice. Their eyes met, and she wished she’d been a little less honest. A few seconds earlier she’d somehow hurt him, and had overcorrected. That was all. But the intensity of his gaze reminded her that she didn’t know him very well and, except for her sleeping son, they were alone in the middle of nowhere.
“I didn’t mean that the way it came out,” she said, making a point of counting the yellow dash marks flying toward them. “I—I wasn’t coming on to you or anything.”
He didn’t speak for several minutes. When he looked at her again, the flicker of interest in his eyes was gone. “Is the man who left that burn on your hand Max’s father?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You called him your boyfriend.”
“We were never married.”
“Why not?”
“His family objected.”
“And he gave in? In this day and age?”
“He has a close-knit family.”
“I still find that hard to believe. How long were you with him?”
“We were together for six years. We lived in the same house for five.”
“You moved in together after Max was born?”
