CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE ONLY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MEN AND BOYS IS THE PRICE OF THEIR TOYS

 

The next three days were drizzly and dreary, with no sign of the Ninja. Despite the weather, my spirits were bright with that pre-date high. I could hardly wait to see Trey again. I cruised by the elementary school several times, but hadn’t been lucky enough to catch him on his way in or out. Good thing, probably. Didn’t want to appear desperate.

 

When I arrived home from work on Friday, I found Dad in the kitchen, mopping huge muddy paw prints off the floor. I glanced out the back window, noting fresh holes under the scrubby cedar tree. Looked like Bluebonnet had been having some fun in the rain-soaked yard. Uncle Angus was perched on the countertop, drinking a Shiner Bock. He tipped his bottle at me in greeting.

 

Dad plunked the mop into the bucket of soapy water and leaned on the mop handle. “Angus and I were thinkin’ of heading out to the Chuck Wagon for chicken-fried steak. Want to come along?”

 

“Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve got plans.”

 

I never had plans. Which is why Dad tilted his head, waiting for details.

 

“It’s a date,” I explained.

 

“Now, honey,” he teased, “you know you’re supposed to bring the boy to meet me before I’ll allow him to take you out.”

 

The last boy I’d brought home to meet Dad was Chet. “You’ll like this one. He works in computers. He’s a really good bowler, too.”

 

“A bowler, huh? Guess he’s all right then.”

 

Bluebonnet and I ate leftover tuna casserole for dinner, then I took a shower and prepared for my date, wearing a pair of plain tan flats with the ruffled shirt and jeans, hoping they’d be suitable for whatever we’d be doing. Trey arrived promptly at seven, wearing his hiking boots, faded Levi’s, and an untucked light-blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. He looked sporty and adventurous.

 

Dad and Angus followed me to the door and the three men introduced themselves. Trey’s gaze went from Dad’s long braid to mine. It’s not often a father and daughter wear the same hairstyle. To Trey’s credit, he seemed unfazed by my dad’s appearance. Good thing, too. I came from a long line of blue-blooded biker stock and made no apologies for my heritage.

 

Bluebonnet wandered in from the kitchen to see who was stopping by. Trey crouched down, getting face-to-muzzle with her. “Hello, there.” He ran a hand down her neck and scratched under her chin. She wagged her tail and licked his cheek, a good omen. Bluebonnet was an excellent judge of character.

 

We bade Dad, uncle, and dog goodbye. The storm had finally broken and we made our way through the soft, early evening sunlight to the car, a bronze Lincoln sedan. Not exactly what I’d expect a single guy in his early thirties to drive, but maybe he’d borrowed it from his parents. A sizzle ran up my spine as Trey put his hand on my back to help me into the passenger side.

 

The seats were soft and cushy. “Comfortable car,” I said as Trey slid into the driver’s seat.

 

“It’s my mom’s,” Trey said. “I took the first flight out after my dad’s stroke. My car’s back in California.”

 

I put my hand on his arm when he stuck the keys in the ignition. “Before we go any further, show me that electronic device. I want to know what I’m getting myself into here.”

 

Chuckling, Trey reached over my legs and into the glove box, pulling out a bright yellow device about the size of a cell phone. He held it up.

 

“What is it?” I asked.

 

“GPS.” He pressed a button on the gadget and the small screen lit up.

 

“We planning on getting lost?”

 

“Nope. We’re going geocaching.”

 

“Geo-whatting?”

 

“Caching. It’s a cross between a high-tech scavenger hunt and orienteering.”

 

Wow. This guy is a total nerd. So how come I felt the urge to throw him into the backseat and have my way with him right there in the driveway?

 

Trey went on to explain that unknown people all over the world, identified only by secret code names, planted caches in hidden spots, noting the locations on websites so others could attempt to locate them. Geocaching sounded different, fun, adventurous even.

 

He handed the GPS to me and I looked it over. “I can’t imagine there’d be many of these caches around Jacksburg.” The citizens of Jacksburg resisted innovation, partly out of respect for tradition, partly due to the expense of electronics. Heck, the scoreboard on the high school football field was still changed by hand.

 

“Surprise,” Trey said, handing me a computer printout. “There’s three caches within a six-mile radius of Jacksburg.”

 

I looked at the printout. On the list were coordinates for three caches denoted with odd names. Kickin’ It Old School. Nut Job. Tower of Power. “What do these names mean?”

 

“They’re hints,” Trey said. “They usually give a clue where the cache is hidden. The GPS is only good to within ten feet or so.” He took the device back from me and situated it on the seat between us where we both could see it. “‘Kickin’ It’ is the closest one, so let’s try that first. Watch the screen and tell me where to go.”

 

I pointed the the road heading northeast. “That way.”

 

We spent the next few minutes working our way to the first location. We pulled onto the road by Jacksburg High and the readout counted down the distance to the cache. Three-hundred feet. Two-fifty. Two-hundred feet.

 

“We’re almost there.” Trey turned into the high school parking lot and pulled into a spot at the back by the gym. We climbed out of the car and went the rest of the way on foot, the GPS guiding us, ending up at the gate to the football stadium.

 

“Kickin’ it,” Trey said, his face thoughtful. He looked around for a few seconds, then his eyes brightened. “Got it.”

 

I followed him across the field to the end zone, the grass on the field still damp and soft thanks to the day’s rain. The air smelled fresh, felt cool against my face. Trey stopped at the metal goal post, his gaze moving upward. “There it is.” He reached up to a small cylindrical plastic container attached by a magnet to the horizontal pole of the goal post. He opened the container and pulled out a narrow, tightly wound strip of paper.

 

I craned my neck to see. “What’s that?”

 

“A log.” Trey explained that when a cache is found, the finder records his or her code name on a log contained in the cache. He pulled a pen out of his back pocket, smoothed the log out on his thigh, and signed his name to it. When he handed the log and pen to me, I twirled my finger in the air, motioning for him to turn around. He put his back to me and I held the log against his shoulder, using it as a solid surface to write on, fighting the urge to run my hand over the lean, hard muscle. I noticed Trey had referred to himself as “Computer Geek.” I identified myself as “Wonder Woman.” My eyes scanned the signatures on the list. Among them were “Rowdy Redneck,” “Cowpoke,” and “The Jacksburg Jackass.” I had several nominees for the last appellation.

 

I handed the pen and log back to Trey. “This is fun.” Not the typical first date, but I was beginning to think Trey was anything but typical.

 

Trey toggled a switch on the GPS. “‘Tower of Power’ is the closest cache to here. Four point two miles south. Let’s try that one next.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, we stood under a towering transformer, an occasional zzt-zzt of stray electricity punctuating the otherwise quiet evening. A ten-foot chain link fence topped with loops of barbed wire surrounded the structure. The gate was chained and padlocked. We followed the fence, looking for anything that could be a cache.

 

Having been trained to search for discarded weapons and drugs hurled from moving vehicles, I’d developed a keen eye. I spotted a clear plastic milk jug tucked at the base of a wild bush nearby. At first glance it appeared to be trash, but then I noticed it contained something. I crouched down and pulled it out from under the bush. “Could this be it?” I shook the jug and it rattled loudly.

 

“Sometimes people leave prizes for the others who find their cache.”

 

I took off the red plastic cap and we peeked inside. At the top of the jug was another rolled-up paper log. Underneath the log were dozens of colorful glass marbles, the kind kids used to collect and trade back in the day. “Hold out your hands.”

 

Trey cupped his hands and I poured a handful of marbles into them. I fingered though, picking out a glass cat’s eye streaked through with yellow and black, the Ninja’s colors. Trey chose a solid red one. He poured the rest back into the milk carton, bending down to retrieve the few that fell to the grass. We signed the log and returned the jug to its spot under the bush.

 

Geocaching was a bit pointless, perhaps, but it beat the hell out of a stuffy dinner at the country club, my ex’s idea of good time. I liked the adventure of not knowing where our quest would take us next, of working with Trey, combining his technical savvy with my street skills to track down the treasure, solve the mystery. With our complementary skills, we made a great team.

 

Trey punched a couple of buttons on the GPS. “Now for ‘Nut Job.’”

 

We hopped back into the Lincoln. I checked the device and pointed out the side window. “That way.” We headed southwest as far as we could, took a short detour due west, then went southwest again on a narrow county road, past fields with dried-out cotton plants, a once-dry stock pond now brimming with the day’s rain, and a scattered herd of Holstein cattle.

 

Consulting the GPS, I noted we were still on course, two point three miles from our destination. I directed Trey down a shortcut, a long-forgotten fire road that ran between a horse paddock and a cornfield. I was enjoying Trey’s company, thinking how I wouldn’t mind spending more time with him, when I remembered our time would be limited, why he’d come home. “How’s your dad doing?”

 

“Really well,” Trey said. “The doctors are amazed at how quickly he’s recovering.”

 

I looked out the window so Trey wouldn’t see my disappointed expression. Selfish of me, I know, to hope his father’s recovery would be prolonged. I didn’t want Trey’s father to suffer, but I’d already had more fun with Trey tonight than I’d had in the entire year I’d been back in Jacksburg. I’d like a little more time with him before he returned to his job in California.

 

With night now approaching, the sky morphed into a pastel tie-dye of pink and purple, the clouds having been blown to the east, now dropping their rain on the Piney Woods of east Texas and the casinos just across the state border in Shreveport.

 

The GPS counted the distance down to zero. Trey pulled the car to the shoulder and we looked around at the dusky, barren landscape around us.

 

“Nut Job,” Trey murmured, thinking aloud. “What could that mean?”

 

I looked about at the grass, the caliche, the trees. Two scrubby mesquites. A gnarled live oak. And a tall pecan. “Bingo.”

 

Trey followed me over to the tree and we searched around the base. Nothing. Not even fresh dirt indicating the cache might be buried. Our eyes traveled up to the lower branches. Nothing hung from a lower branch or perched in a forked limb near the trunk.

 

The night had grown too dark for us to see further up into the tree with any clarity. Trey pulled a small flashlight from his pants pocket. He stepped up next to me, so close his arm brushed against mine, setting my nerves on edge. He shined the light up into the tree. At first we saw nothing, but as he slowly scanned the beam around, our eyes caught something square lodged in a V in the upper branches.

 

“They didn’t make it easy on us, that’s for sure.” Trey handed me the flashlight, still warm from his hand. I kept the beam steady on the cache while Trey jumped up, grabbing a lower branch with each hand, pulling himself into the tree, his shoulder muscles and biceps flexing visibly through the fabric of his shirt. I imagined what it would feel like to be enveloped in those arms, held closely to his chest.

 

The limbs shook under Trey’s weight, sending a bombardment of pecans to the ground below him. I stepped back to avoid the barrage of nuts.

 

“Sorry about that!” he called down to me.

 

Trey perched halfway up the tree, looking at the branches above him, considering his options. The branches higher up were smaller and could be too thin to support his weight.

 

“Careful up there,” I warned.

 

“Okay, Mom.”

 

“Smart ass.”

 

Trey grinned down at me before cautiously picked his way higher. “Got it.” He tucked the white plastic box under his left arm and eased his way back down the tree, stopping to sit on a lower branch, one leg curved around the trunk of the tree for support, the other dangling down.

 

I looked up at him. “Impressive. You part chimpanzee or something?”

 

Trey swung his free leg. “Rock climber. Go whenever I can. I’m planning on climbing El Capitan in Yosemite next summer.”

 

“So you’re a thrill-seeker?”

 

“I suppose you could say that.”

 

CRACK! The branch on which Trey was sitting gave way and he tumbled out of the tree, dropping the box and grabbing at the lower branches in an attempt to break his fall. He fell forward, right at me. There was no time to get out of the way.

 

Hwump! The air left my lungs in an instant rush as my back hit the soft, wet dirt. Next thing I knew, I was lying on my back with Trey on top of me. And I had no complaints whatsoever.

 

Trey’s face was only inches from mine, and his lips looked soft, warm, undeniably kissable.

 

“You okay, Marnie?”

 

Other than having the wind knocked out of me, I was fine. “Yeah,” I said once I managed to catch my breath. “But if this is your idea of a come on, you might want to think again.”

 

He chuckled and pushed himself back, crouching over me now, straddling my legs, his thighs mere inches above mine. I looked up, straight into his silver-flecked eyes. He gazed back at me, making no further move to get up.

 

I want this guy. I want him bad. And I want him now, right here in the mud and gravel and grit. But I wasn’t exactly a sex-on-the-first-date kind of girl. At least I hadn’t been the last time I was on the dating circuit more than a decade ago. “You gonna let me up?”

 

He ignored my question, continuing to stare into my eyes. “There’s something incredibly sexy about a woman who can take a hit like that.”

 

I shrugged my shoulders in the dirt, no doubt doing a number on the brand-new blouse Savannah had given me. “What can I say? I’m built tough.”

 

His lips pulled into his now-familiar cockeyed grin. His gaze strayed from my eyes to my lips, up the round curve of my freckled cheek, and back to my eyes, taking in my features, appraising. The grin and the look in his eyes softened, telling me he liked what he saw, a strong woman, a street-wise woman, a woman who could handle anything life threw at her. Well, almost anything.

 

He angled his head slightly and I stopped breathing again. I knew that look.

 

He’s going to kiss me.