Wild Hearts (2 page)

“Good timing,” I said quietly.

Mom crouched down on the road and swiped at a stray lock of hair that flopped in her eyes. I wouldn't be surprised if she ended up on her stomach and crawling toward an unsuspecting bison. I admired her dedication. Once, she had waded through a horsefly-infested swamp to capture pictures of a northern bog violet for
Flowers Monthly.

Then she stood and put her camera in my hand.

“Mom,” I protested. “I don't feel like taking a picture right now. Let's just get to our house.”

“One,” Mom said, holding up her pointer finger. “Then we'll go.” She didn't wait for me to argue—she walked around the front of the SUV and got back into the passenger seat.

Mom would know if I rushed it just to get done. Then we would be here even longer. Sighing, I gazed around for the perfect shot. The tourists had begun to go back to their cars. Like Mom, I crouched low and rested my elbows on my knees. I adjusted the lens, turning it until it was just right, and waited for the bison I'd focused on to—

An engine revved
hard
behind me. Still on the ground, I turned and a rusty black Ford revved at me again. Against the sun, I couldn't see the driver, but I shot him my index finger in the universal wait-a-sec gesture before turning back to the animals.

“We have an entire corral of these in town for tourists to photograph!” a guy's voice shouted from behind me.

That did it. The bison scattered, moving awkwardly through the brush and disappearing over a small hill.

I got up, slapped dust off my jeans, and walked over to the driver who had just ruined my photo. “What is your
problem
, jerk? Do you really have somewhere so important to be that you couldn't wait five more seconds for me to take a picture?”

Eyes the color of dark chocolate met mine. A guy who couldn't be much older than me sat behind the wheel.

“And FYI,” I continued, my voice a little less angry than I wanted it to be. “I'm not some tourist trying to cause a traffic jam. I'm moving here.”

His eyes widened a bit and he tipped his chin in a nod.

God, his chin was really chiseled. I took in his long-sleeve plaid shirt, jeans, and leather belt with a large silver buckle. I squinted to read the inscription.

“It says ‘Triple M.'” The guy's voice was deep and playful at the same time.

“What?” I asked. I yanked my eyes from his waist to his face.

“My buckle,” he said, grinning. His tanned skin set off his beautiful white teeth. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it doesn't say ‘jerk.'”

A blush crept up my neck. “Oh, well, maybe you'll get another one for Christmas.”
Really?
I yelled at myself.
That was the best you could do?

“I'll have to try and be good for the rest of the year. I better find some way to apologize to you so Santa doesn't give me coal in my stocking.” He smiled easily.

I fought to keep my angry, nonchalant posture—a hip jutted out with my hand casually resting on it, head held high, and narrowed eyes. But
he
was making it insanely difficult.
Just looking at him made me want to forget this whole thing and promise him that Santa wasn't going to give him coal this year.

“I'm Logan,” the guy said, shifting in his seat. He stuck a hand out of the window.

I clasped his rough, hardened hand in mine. His tan skin made my own look almost translucent.

“I'm—

“Brie, let's go!”

I released his hand and rolled my eyes. “I don't even have to introduce myself now. My dad did that for me.”

Logan smiled again.

“See you around, Brie,” Logan said. “Welcome to town. I work at WyGas, so I'm sure I'll see you around. It's the only station in town.”

“Oh, cool. See you.”

I turned away from his truck and sauntered—really, walked; I had no idea how to
saunter
—back to our Explorer. Once I got inside, Logan's truck rumbled past us, barely scraping by on the narrow road. A giant red piece of paper in the back window caught my eye, but the tires kicked up too much dust to read it.

Dad grinned at me in the rearview mirror. “Remember that we're going to be living here for a while. Try not to chew out every person in town on our first day.”

“Ha-ha,” I said. “Ironic, coming from you.”

Dad shrugged, feigning innocence. We both knew where I got my temper.

My dad, the Michael Brooks of Michael Brooks, Inc., developed land. His projects ranged from condos to strip malls. The jobs usually lasted a year or less, and his work required him to be constantly on the job site. Mom and I moved wherever Dad's work took him.

I'd been measuring my life in 365-day increments ever since I could remember.

In the backseat, I pushed my books and iPod out of the way. The drive from Houston to Wyoming hadn't been an easy trek. After nearly twenty hours in the car and days of driving, I couldn't wait to see our new home. Lost Springs was about to become another one of Dad's projects.

Sixteen years ago, when Dad had first started his company, Mom, Kate, and I had lived in Seattle. Dad had flown back and forth between his job sites and home to visit us every month. Soon Mom had grown tired of raising a baby and an eight-year-old daughter on her own; and with her career in photography flourishing, she needed Dad back.

My parents decided we would move with Dad to each new development site. It sounds crazy, but it works for us. I grew to
like
moving. Although it had become a little lonely since Kate had moved to LA. My big sister had always been obsessed with Hollywood news and gossip. Now, at twenty-four and after graduating from UCLA, Kate had managed to land her dream job as an entertainment reporter at
Star Access
—the top-rated nationally syndicated entertainment news show. She was already eyeing the anchor chair.

It helped that we still talked on the phone several times a week. She had made me promise to tell her everything about Dad's new job, building an extended-stay hotel for tourists at the edge of town. Dad had said the closest hotel was over an hour away.

Dad started the SUV forward, and gravel crunched under the tires as the vehicles behind us started moving. In all our years traveling for Dad's job, we had never been to Wyoming. Still, the excitement of getting to see someplace new never faded. I glanced up at Blackheart Mountain. It looked like something you'd find on the cover of a calendar featuring the country's best mountains. The mountain reached thousands of feet into the air—the black rock was snowcapped, and jagged peaks jutted out at all angles. Thick fir trees covered the mountain's base, and a lone buzzard circled high above the trees.

Virginia had been hilly when we'd lived in Roanoke, but that had nothing on the Breeze River mountain range. This looked like a movie set.

The tiny U-Haul we pulled behind us swayed as Dad drove slowly along the road that spiraled down into the valley near Blackheart Mountain. Guardrails were bent or missing on most of the road; it would be a long way down if our car skidded off. Gulping, I redirected my gaze forward.

“Can you get any reception, Nicola?” Dad asked Mom as he squinted at his cell phone screen. “I called the company yesterday and they swore we'd get reception out here.”

“We're in a valley, Michael,” Mom said, shaking her head. “You really expected to get service here, did you? We'll be in town in minutes.”

“I expected service because I was promised service everywhere. Now I'll have to call again and speak to a supervisor.”

The road started to level off as we pulled up to a lopsided, rough wooden sign. “Welcome to Lost Springs,” I read aloud. The words were burned into the wood, and the sign was nailed to four wooden posts that weren't exactly even.

“Please be alert of the wildlife and don't call emergency services to report bear sightings.” I shook my head. “Sorry, but I'm disregarding that last part if a bear comes near me.”

Mom and Dad nodded, laughing.

We were finally here. This time, I vowed to make the house and town feel like home even if I only lived in Lost Springs a short time.

The Explorer started up the narrow street. According to Google Maps, there was only one road, Main Street, which went straight through the town's center. We passed a boxy building, its white paint yellowed with age. Unvarnished wooden planters filled with deep-purple and light-blue flowers lined the building's front. Brown trim framed the large, spotty glass windows. A black Lab wearing a red collar sat on the building's stoop and wagged its tail so energetically it thumped his body up and down. Painted above the door was a red sign with white block letters.
LOST SPRINGS RUGSTORE
. With the
D
missing, it looked completely archaic. Like something out of a black-and-white film.

Across from the drugstore, an archaic-looking gas station, complete with attendants dressed in hunter-green jumpsuits, was servicing two pickup trucks circa the late 1960s, while the truck owners chatted with the attendants.

“Can we get a soda?” I asked, the words surprising me as they tumbled out of my mouth. Dad probably wouldn't stop. His number one priority was always setting up computers at home. He always connected the Internet before he moved in anything else so that he could start working right away.

“Yeah,” Dad said, whipping the SUV into the desolate parking lot. “Go get us a few drinks, and I'm going to find a pay phone.”

I blinked, surprised. I almost regretted my request. I reached into my purse for my compact mirror and cosmetics bag. I looked into the mirror at my green eyes. They were lightly lined with black kohl liner. This morning, I'd used my Naked 2 palette and had done a brown smoky eye that was perfect for daytime. I touched up my lashes with CoverGirl mascara. My cheeks didn't need blush—they were lightly tanned. I swiped on Lip Buxom in a peachy shade and snapped my mirror shut. I ran my fingers through my shoulder-length light brown wavy hair, catching a few tangles.

“I'll wait here,” Mom said, rubbing her hand across her makeup-free forehead. She did that when she was exhausted.

At least we didn't have much to unload from the U-Haul. The rental house was already fully furnished—it was too much work and cost to move furniture of our own.

Dad parked, and I tossed my flip-flops onto the parking lot and stepped into them. There were actual wooden hitching posts on the edge of the parking lot. Did people still use horses for transportation around here? I walked away from the Explorer and headed inside the gas station. The smell of honeysuckle filtered through the air. The reddish brick building looked dim inside, and the front door was held open by a chipped concrete block. This was the first gas station I'd seen with a wooden porch and rocking chairs out front. A
WYGAS
sign hung crookedly above the door, but the porch and store were swept clean. I'd half expected the station to be full of straw and horsehair or something.

Passing the empty counter, I avoided the wooden case of candy, chips, and various junk foods. Gobstoppers sounded good, but I'd probably already consumed half my weight in candy on this trip. I peered around for Logan, but I was the only one in the store.

Instead of a normal display refrigerator, I found a line of blue and red plastic coolers against the back wall with papers on them that said “diet,” “regular,” and “water.” At the far corner of the store, a large refrigerator took up most of the wall space. Inside the refrigerator were Styrofoam cups with plastic lids. In squiggly handwriting, the cups were labeled. “Crickets, worms, live bait,” I read aloud. “Whoa.” Not your typical gas station snacks.

Closing the bait fridge, I grabbed three Diet Dr Peppers from the red cooler. I headed up to the checkout and placed the sodas on top. There was still no one behind the counter,
and I twisted around and looked for an attendant. A flyer was taped to the counter.
If no attendant on duty, please place correct change in jar. Thank you for using our honor system.
No way. A jar like this wouldn't last five minutes in my old town. I dug in my jeans pocket and pulled out enough money for the sodas. As I counted the bills,
he
suddenly appeared behind the counter.

“Hey,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. He'd taken off his cowboy hat to reveal cropped flaxen blond hair.

“I got a good photo, thanks,” I snipped back at him.

Logan hung his head a little. “I was a jerk. Sorry.”

I shrugged. I pointed to the jar. “The honor system, huh? That's pretty rare.”

“Well,” he said, taking my sodas and putting them into a brown paper bag. “We know where everyone lives around here, and when the sheriff can track you down in five minutes, no one has much interest in stealing.”

“That'll be nice for a change.” I tried not to look over his shoulder at Dad, who was pacing back and forth as much as the pay phone cord would allow. He was gesturing wildly with his hand. I jerked my attention back to Logan.

He pushed the bag toward me. “So you're really moving
here
?”

“Yeah, moving in today.”

“Most people just pass through,” he said, putting the hat back on his head.

So was I, in a way. Logan dropped a couple of quarters in the jar. “For later,” he said. He smiled and revealed a dimple in his left cheek. “I usually grab a snack.”

I took the bag and headed for the door. “Thanks.”

“I owe you one, so maybe I could show you around sometime, if you want.”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “See ya.” I headed out of the store and walked down the porch's creaky wooden steps.

I wondered about Logan's smile. Did he have the I-think-I-like-you face? Or did he give every girl the same grin he'd given me? Whatever.

I held the bag up so Dad could see I was ready to go and went to the car. Mom walked back from where she was examining a stone well in the nearby grassy lot. When I opened the bag to grab a soda, my hand touched something crinkly. I reached inside and pulled out a Snickers bar. This wasn't mine. Why would Logan give me a candy bar? He didn't even know me, and he slipped me candy. That was
not
the honor system. I could take the candy back inside, but then I'd have to see him again.
Oh
. That's what the quarters were for. I unwrapped the candy and bit into it. Welcome to Lost Springs, indeed.