Page 32 of Nomad

Bud stood there in Spongebob Squarepants pajamas with a hand on one hip and a challenging posture. On the one hand, the print was beyond silly. On the other, the lightweight knit outlined every inch of Bud’s lithe young figure and brought attention to the fact that her stomach was still ironing-board flat.

“What are you looking at?” she said.

His eyes came back up to hers quickly. “Just noticin’ that you aren’t, um, showing.”

“If I was far enough along to be showing, then it would be too late to…”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “So how far along are you?”

“Eight weeks. I think.”

“How did he find out?”

“I told him. I thought it would be better to tell him why I wasn’t starting school this semester than to pay the money and drop out.”

Cann regarded her thoughtfully. “Most kids your age wouldn’t think like that.”

“Will you stop calling me a kid?” Normally she would have left it at that, but the part of her that recognized that at the very least she owed the big handsome biker courtesy for being her unlikely rescuer urged her to add, “Please.”

“You know someday you’re gonna wish folks thought of you as younger.”

Without pause she said, “Then I’ll ask them to call me a kid.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s hard to think of you as a grown woman when you’re wearin’ those pajamas.” It was a lie. Anatomically she was all woman, but it sounded plausible.

She looked down at the pajamas. “Clothes don’t make the, um, person.”

After taking a sip of coffee, he said, “Cannot argue that.” He pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked at the face. “I’m going to go run the truck long enough to charge the phone. Shouldn’t take too long. You be okay here?”

Bud cocked her head at the question. After a lifetime of taking care of herself, it was odd to have someone ask if she’d be okay. She tried to remember if her father had ever asked that short and simple question and couldn’t say that he had.

When Cann looked closely at her young flawless face, waiting patiently for an answer, he saw for the first time that the eyes looking back belonged to someone who was older than the edge of eighteen. On the inside.

“Of course,” she said, with the maturity of a woman. Not a girl.

And he wondered how he’d failed to read the situation correctly. He was a hundred years old walking around in a twenty-five-year-old body. She was twenty-five walking around in an eighteen-year-old body.

As he rose to his feet, he ducked his head in acknowledgement then set the coffee cup down on the table, and walked to the shed that was temporarily housing the truck.

Bud noticed the instantly empty feeling of the house when she was left alone. She had known that Cann was a big guy surrounded by a big invisible presence, but experiencing the difference in atmospheric environment after that presence withdrew was breathtaking.

That’s what they mean when people talk about someone being a force of nature,she thought.

She crawled under the quilts and stared at the fire. Even though Cann wasn’t in the house, knowing he was close by gave her a sense of peace and security like she’d never known. As drowsiness began to claim her, she admonished herself not to get attached. Cannon Johns was a man unlike any she’d ever known or known of. But her time with him was temporary. Six days. And she couldn’t get attached.

Something woke her hours later. Still facing the fire, she opened her eyes a slit and watched Cann as he zipped up a black backpack before setting it by the front door. She watched as he undressed, draping his clothes over the cowhide sofa until he was wearing nothing but dark boxers. He was magnificently larger than life clothed or unclothed. He was no Abercrombie model. There was not the slightest hint of softness anywhere on the planes of his body or in his expression. He was hard. Rugged.

When he turned toward the bunk bed, she shut her eyes. When the bunk moved as he pulled himself up, she smiled. She didn’t know why. There was no reason for it.

Bud’s first thought, before she even opened her eyes, was that bacon was cooking and that it might possibly be one of the world’s best aromas. She turned over to see what was going on.

Cann was crouched in front of the hearth tending to breakfast.

She got to her feet quietly and ran to the bathroom before he could see that, when she first woke up, she looked more like a zombie than a young woman coming into her prime. As she slammed the door behind her, she heard him say, “Mornin’.”

She’d stowed her bag in the bath because it made more sense to keep everything there. After brushing her teeth, she tamed the hair that had still been damp when she’d gone to bed, by wetting it and pulling it into French braids. She hadn’t worn makeup for the past two days. She told herself she was going for the wholesome outdoorsy look.

The jeans Maria bought her were slightly baggy, but the chance of having them fit perfectly without trying on was essentially nil. All things considered, too big was better than too small. She pulled the long-sleeved knit Henley over her head. It was a lavender blue that made her eyes pop. Not that she was interested in such things.

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