Page 19 of Quarter Miles (Runaway 3)

Except he hadn’t broken it off with her for me. Because of me. The distinction was essential.

Cash snored in the passenger seat. He’d tipped his hat over his eyes and straight nose. His beard looked soft, like a dog’s fur, and I was tempted to sneak a touch.

He grew a beard every November, calling it his winter hide, much like what his horses grew. And like the animals, he’d lose it once the tulips bloomed. Cash would pick a random day to shave and waltz into the kitchen with a grin on his face, proudly displaying that razor-sharp jaw.

I’d miss that annual ritual. I’d miss seeing him every day. But over the last fifty miles, as he’d slept, I’d come to a decision. I couldn’t live with Cash. It was time for me to move out.

I’d start with the staff quarters and search for a house of my own.

It would be awkward, returning to the quarters. My time there had been fun, but that had been years ago. The age gap between me and the others was noticeably wider. The younger staff needed a chance to unwind, and having their boss next door was a major buzz kill, but they’d have to deal with it for a while.

There wasn’t much of a real estate market in Clear River, but I might find a fixer-upper with projects galore to keep me occupied at night. I’d find something and establish some distance from Cash.

This trip would be our last hurrah. Part of me was glad he’d turned alpha-male brute and insisted on tagging along.

We’d flipped Carol’s quarter five times and fate had brought us north and east, over the narrow and quiet Montana highways. There were hours of daylight remaining but as the sun began to lower on the horizon, I wound along a river.

I turned on the radio, scanning for a local channel, then dropped the volume low, letting the twangy jingle of classic country fill the car.

Cash thought I hated the radio on road trips, probably because that’s what I’d told him. Really, I hated the radio when he was in the car. He didn’t hum along or sing the lyrics. That I could handle, even if it was off-key. No, he had this whistle—this ear-splitting, toothy whistle—that was my equivalent of nails on a chalkboard.

That whistle was nearly as annoying as his tendency to let crumbs pile up around the legs beneath his dining room chair. For days, they’d accumulate until finally I couldn’t take it anymore and would vacuum them up.

The thing that had irritated me the most was when Cash had christened me Kat. God, how I’d despised that name in the beginning. Of course, I was the only one. He’d started calling me Kat the year after he’d moved home from college, and every member of the Greer family plus the ranch and resort employees had jumped on the Kat hay wagon. I’d stayed quiet, not wanting to alienate the family or my coworkers, despite how the name grated on me. I didn’t need constant reminders that I was the short and small one of the bunch. That I was the runt.

But then Easton had asked Cash why Kat instead of Kate or Katie. Cash had shrugged and told him it was because he admired my claws.

That moment had been another ring around the tree, another moment my love for Cash had grown. I adored the man, piercing whistle and table crumbs included.

The evening air was cool and when I leaned my elbow on the door, the glass of the window was cold against my skin. Covering a yawn with my hand, I kept watch for a sign nestled between the trees, anything to mark an upcoming town. Hopefully one large enough for a motel with two vacancies.

It was exhilarating, not knowing exactly where we were. My entire life, I’d always known my place. I couldn’t recall a time when I’d been lost. Trapped, yes, but never lost. Trapped with a mother who’d hated her daughter from the day she was born.

One would think Mom would have screamed hallelujah the day I’d left—or had attempted to leave. Instead, she’d slapped me across the face and dragged me to my room, confining me inside for the worst week of my life.

My hand drifted to my cheek. There were still days when I could feel the smack of her palm.

The conversation with Cash must have brought up the memory. I hadn’t thought about my mother in months. I shoved her aside, into the box where I kept the past locked away. Cash had rattled the chain around it with his questions earlier.

A sign approached on the road’s shoulder. The Idaho border was five miles ahead.

“Hey.” Cash shifted in his seat, sitting up. “Sorry, I fell asleep.”

“That’s okay.”

“Where are we?” His deep, husky voice sent a shiver down my spine as he blinked sleep from his eyes.

“We’re crossing into Idaho.”

He rubbed his jaw. “Want to stop or keep going? I can drive for a while.”

“Let’s stop.” There was no rush. “I want dinner. Maybe we can crash here tonight and start again in the morning.”

“Sounds good.”

We crossed a long bridge that stretched over the river I’d been driving beside. On the other side, a small town greeted us with welcome signs and the American flag. At the first stop sign, I scanned up and down the streets, searching for a motel.

“Want me to check?” Cash dug his phone from his jeans pocket.