He waved her away. “It’s fine. You worry too much.”
She crooked her finger. “Nope. Up you go.”
With an overdramatic groan, he sat and pulled his legs in, so he mirrored her pose, facing her. “Happy?”
“Radiantly.”
“Show off.”
She got up on her knees so their faces were even, and eased his flannel shirt off his shoulder. She passed a hand over the bandage, frowning. “Did you get it wet in the shower last night?”
“Nah. I didn’t wash my hair.”
She sat back. “I’ll redo it again tonight, when we stop.” She realized she had no idea how much farther it was to New Orleans and glanced at his face. “If we’re stopping.”
His expression was sympathetic. “We’ve only got about four hours left. We’ll ride in this evening.”
She nodded and took a deep breath, wondering how much worse the soreness would be by then. “There’s a reason women don’t ride bikes,” she said. “Because only a moron would subject himself to that torture.”
He smiled. “Mama always said I was awful stupid.”
Ava froze, her hands still on his shirt as she straightened it, searching his face with her eyes. Henevermentioned his mother.
“What?” he asked. “You know I’m stupid.”
“No, you’re not. Did your mom really tell you that?”
She saw the shutters close over his eyes, the way he locked everything away tight. He shrugged, his face smooth and humorless. “Yeah. Whatever.”
Ava sucked her lower lip between her teeth and debated the wisdom of what she was about to ask. But they were married now. She had a right to her curiosity. “Merc…”
His brows flicked up.
“What’s the thing you won’t tell me about your family? What happened there?”
His smile was slow and grim. “Whatever it was, it happened a long time ago.” He patted the top of her head, like she was still a little girl. “Don’t worry about it.”
She took a breath and turned his words of yesterday back around on him. “That’s one of the perks of being married: I get to worry.”
He shook his head. “Not about this.” He stood and extended a hand for her, his body blocking out the sunlight above her.
“Mercy,” she persisted, as he pulled her up. “You can tell me.”
“Can tell you; won’t tell you.” He bent to pick up her jacket and handed it to her, his expression telling her that he was done with this line of questioning.
“Now who’s being the brat?” she asked.
“You.” He slung his arm around her waist as they started back for the bike. “Always you.”
The answer to the question of Littlejohn’s whereabouts was answered when Maggie pulled into the Hershels’ driveway. The other prospect was parked beside Jackie’s Buick, having a smoke. He nodded to her in greeting as she climbed out of her car. “Ma’am.” And he traded a smooth sliding of palm-against-palm with Harry.
“Jackie’s here alone?” Maggie asked, as she headed up the front walk.
Littlejohn said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie frowned. Something was definitely off. She’d pestered Ghost about it last night, but he’d refused to say anything, shoveling in his dinner and telling her not to worry. Was he kidding? All she could do right now was worry. Her daughter was on the lam and there was an ever-increasing crowd of protesters outside Dartmoor.
Collier and Jackie lived in a modest blue split-level about two miles from downtown, the yard edged with a tangling of jasmine, honeysuckle, and wisteria. There was a flag mounted on the siding above the garage. A pair of wellies beside the welcome mat at the front door.
