Page 34 of Nomad

He barked out a laugh. “Well, that’s a new one.” He shook his head and repeated, “Pretty,” like that was the most outlandish thing he’d ever heard. He was obligated, according to the code of men’s men, to protest the word ‘pretty’. So he did. But he also seemed to enjoy the compliment.

On the walk back to the house, Cann said, “So it looks like your old man taught yousomethin’.”

“You mean shooting?” She shrugged. “When he was around, he taught me stuff he knew.”

“You love him?”

“Mixed feelings. He’s my daddy, but tryin’ to take this baby from me just isn’t right. He’s not God. Shouldn’t be his decision. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who wants to tell everybody else what they should be doing with their business.” She looked at Cann for his reaction, but he gave none. “Thank you for…”

When she didn’t finish the sentence, he said, “For what?”

“For taking care of my baby when you could be having a Bloody Mary by the heated pool in your thick white robe.” Cann laughed out loud and the sound of it was good. So good it made her nipples hard. Trying to ignore that, she said, “Do you even own a white robe?”

He shook his head, “No, darlin’. I do not own a white robe. Never have. Never will.”

After a few steps, she said, “So we’re back to darlin’.” He chuckled. “Could you, um, really get into trouble for this? Helping me, I mean?”

“We’ve been over this. Your daddy’s a Ranger. So what do you think?”

That was a fine example of a rhetorical question. It was a question that imprinted on her heart. Cannon Johns had made a sacrifice to care for her. At the least it had cost him a week. At the most it could cost him his freedom.

It was an uncommon deed, the sort of thing that could never be repaid and she had no idea why he was putting himself in such a precarious position for a strange girl. With no promise of personal benefit or gain.

As they stepped onto the porch, she said, “Why are you doing this?”

He closed the screen door that he’d opened a few inches, looked down at his boots, and sighed. “I couldn’t save my own…” his breath hitched, “little girl. But I think I can save yours.”

Bud waited until his gaze came up. She tried to push all the gratitude she felt into her eyes so that he would understand that she recognized what he was doing, the chance he was taking.

Then she smiled and said, “What makes you think it’s a girl?”

He smiled in return. “Don’t you?”

They had oranges and Snickers for lunch. Afterward Cann went out to the shed, turned on the truck, plugged in the phone, and called Brant.

“Yeah?” Brant answered on the first ring.

“Checking in.”

“They were here the night you left. Haven’t heard anything else, but the story’s still runnin’ on TV. People are kind of caught up in speculation about you and the kid.”

“She’s not a kid.” Cann almost couldn’t believe he’d said that. It had come out fast, without thinking, and he wasn’t even sure he believed it.

There was a pause on the other end. “I told you not to touch her,” Brant started.

“I’m not!”

“Okay. Just keep your head down for, what is it? Three more days.”

“Yeah. Three days.”

“Call me when you’re headed back.”

“All right.”

Cann gave Bud Spanish lessons while mercilessly beating her at gin rummy, but made it up to her by proclaiming they were having chili dogs for supper. They used wire coat hangers to roast the weenies then stuffed them into buns with turkey chili, mustard, and cheddar cheese.

She made yummy sounds so comical that she had Cann smiling through dinner. Afterward, he said, “My turn for the bath tonight.”

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