The rumble of an engine broke the afternoon silence. Shash and Duke’s ears perked up. I looked toward the driveway, expecting to see Ollie’s sedan. Instead a shiny black SUV with extra-high ground clearance bounded up to the house and stopped a few feet in front of the porch. The engine cut off.
I sank the tip of the shovel into the loose dirt and stared at the vehicle. When he stepped from the SUV, my stomach dropped into my hips. Shash and Duke went ballistic. I grabbed both dogs’ collars and started dragging them toward the barn before they had the chance to attack.
Footsteps thudded on the ground behind me.
“Maggie Mae.”
I stopped and peered over my shoulder. The dogs growled and struggled against me, nearly yanking me off my feet to get at Bridger O’Connell. He held his hand out and stared at the dogs. “Beh-gha,” he said, his voice deep and quiet. Shash and Duke whimpered and sat. “Um … hi,” Bridger said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his fashionably worn jeans and looking at me. Duke’s tail thumped on the dirt.
“What did you say to them?” I asked, looking between Bridger and the calm dogs.
“I told them that was enough. And they listened.”
“Enough? In what language?”
Bridger smiled. “Navajo.” He scanned the dirt I’d been working. “You’re tilling a garden?”
I nodded.
“Want some help?”
I looked at his leather shoes, his expensive jeans, and short-sleeve button-up shirt. Without a word he turned from me and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a white V-neck T-shirt beneath. Just above the neckline of his shirt, a necklace hung on a leather strap against his golden chest—a glossy black claw of some sort, mounted in silver, with a turquoise stone embedded in it.
Bridger tossed his button-up shirt onto the hood of his SUV, walked to my upright shovel, and dug it into the ground, flipping the dirt over on itself. Leave it to Bridger O’Connell to make me feel underdressed to do gardening—even if he was wearing a plain T-shirt.
Shash broke away from me and wagged his way over to Bridger. Bridger grinned and scratched the dog’s ears, then dug the shovel back into the hard earth. I watched him work for a full minute, absolutely shocked that he was seriously going to help me dig, before going to the shed on the side of Mrs. Carpenter’s house for a second shovel.
We tilled the garden side by side, the dogs our silent companions. I stole glances at Bridger when he wasn’t looking, watching the way his broad shoulders moved and his biceps flexed as he lifted and turned shovels full of dirt.
More than once, I caught him staring at me, too.
With Bridger’s help it didn’t take long to till the entire garden. When the last scoop of dirt was turned, Bridger and I leaned on our shovels and stared at each other. When neither of us said a word, Bridger took the shovel from my hands and carried it to the shed. I dragged the dogs to the barn and locked them in.
We met back at the edge of the tilled earth and Bridger wiped a hand over his brow. I stared at him for a long, awkward moment, wondering why he was here.
“That was hard work. I’m thirsty,” he said.
Yeah, I could take a hint. “You want something to drink?”
“That would be nice.”
I nodded and walked to the house. On the front porch, Bridger and I removed our dusty shoes.
“Do you want juice or …,” I asked as I stepped into the house. I stopped walking and turned. Bridger stood framed in the doorway, watching me. “Do you want a drink or not?”
“You didn’t invite me in,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.
“Come in,” I said.
“Thanks. Can I get a glass of water?”
I filled two glasses with ice and tap water and sat down at the dining room table. Bridger sat in the chair beside me and our knees bumped.
“So, why are you here? Do you need to see Mrs. Carpenter? Or do you typically drive around on Saturday looking for gardens to till with girls you hardly know?”
“I wanted to talk to you, Maggie Mae, so I called your house. Mrs. Carpenter answered and said if I had something to say to you, I could come over and say it while I helped you till the garden.” A slow smile spread over his face. I couldn’t help but smile back.
“So, what do you want?” I asked with a laugh.
“A rematch. Fifty-yard dash.”
I stopped laughing. “If I win, are you going to turn the entire school against me as payback? Oh, wait. You already did that.”
He leaned closer and I stared into his dark eyes. “I might have been mad that you beat me, but I didn’t turn the school against you. Danni Williams did. You’re a faster runner and she can’t stand it,” he said. He moved a strand of hair from my cheek and tucked it behind my ear. I prayed he couldn’t see the pulse pounding out of control beneath my neck.
He grinned and leaned back in his chair. “So?” he asked quietly.
“If I beat you again, will you tell the school?”
“If you win, I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you to prom to prove to the entire student body that there are no hard feelings between us.”
“And if you win?”
“I’ll have my dignity back.”
I rolled my eyes. Like I could take away his dignity. He was overflowing with dignity.
“So?” he asked.
“I can’t go to prom. I don’t own a dress.”
He leaned toward me. “Wait, did I hear you right? We’re talking prom dresses. So you’ll race me?”
I studied his midnight eyes. He knew as well as I did that I’d beat him. The real question was: if I owned a dress, would I go with him? Yeah—in a heartbeat. Any girl in her right mind would. He was smart, athletic, and totally hot. “Sure,” I said before I realized the word was out of my mouth. I couldn’t help it. He was the first decent guy that had ever asked me out, even if the date depended on me beating him in a race.
Bridger opened his mouth to speak, but the doorbell chimed.
Floorboards groaned overhead.
“I’ll get it, Mrs. Carpenter,” I called toward the stairs. She’d gone to her quilting circle the night before and been out until midnight, so had gone upstairs with the excuse of an afternoon nap. And besides, it was for me. Ollie was right on time.
I glanced at Bridger as I stood. “You should probably go.”
Bridger downed his water and followed me to the front door.
Ollie stood on the threshold, my file tucked under his arm. Without a word, he turned and spat a glob of black tobacco into the bushes.
“Hello, Magdalene Mae.” He pushed past me and into the house. “Why, hello, Bridger!” A chill raced up my spine. “What in the wide world are you doing here of all places?”
“Hanging out with Maggie Mae,” Bridger replied as if he thought it was pretty obvious.
“Oh. I see,” Ollie said. “Tell me, how’s your dad doing?”
“He’s fine. He and my mom and sister moved to France in January,” Bridger replied.
“They left you here alone?”
“They moved the day I turned eighteen,” Bridger said with a shrug. “But they’re probably coming home to see me graduate. What are you doing here?”
I tried not to cringe as I waited for Ollie’s response.
“I’ve come to visit with Ms. Mortensen, too,” Ollie explained, holding my file up. My shoulders slumped.
“You mean Maggie Mae? But I thought you were a social worker. That you dealt with foster chil …” Bridger’s voice trailed off as his eyes met mine. “Oh.”
“Ms. Mortensen’s been in the fostering program since she was five,” Ollie said.
I wanted to punch Ollie. Wasn’t my life, contained in the file under his arm, supposed to be private?
“Oh,” Bridger said again, studying me as if we had just met. “I’ll see you later, Maggie Mae.” He shook Ollie’s hand before practically running from the house. Seeing Bridger’s hand clasped in the hand of my new social worker made me physically ill. They knew each other. And Ollie knew details about my past, about the indecent exposure. What if he let something slip? What if Bridger learned the truth about me?
“Seems you moved away from Albuquerque just in time,” Ollie said, pulling me from my thoughts. He spread my paperwork on the dining table. “A pack of wild dogs has been attacking bums and killing pets in your old neighborhood. The authorities have never seen anything like it.” He shivered and pulled an envelope from his breast pocket. “This is for you.”
I took the envelope. It was from Jenny Sue and had been mailed to Mr. Petersen’s office. I tucked the letter into my back pocket.
Ollie removed his glasses and cleaned them with his white button-up shirt before scanning my paperwork. He asked basic questions about how Mrs. Carpenter was treating me, how I liked school, if I was fitting in with the students.
When we finished, he asked to see Mrs. Carpenter. I ran upstairs and tapped on her door. “Ollie’s here,” I called through the wood, and ran back downstairs.
After a long moment, she came ambling downstairs.
“Why are you pulling an old woman from her bed, Oliver? I was trying to take a nap,” Mrs. Carpenter grumbled, squinting at him from bleary eyes.
“I need to interview you about Maggie Mae,” he said.
“Well, she’s the best kid I’ve ever met. I wish John had been half as good as her! And I already told him that. He called this morning just to see how she’s doing,” Mrs. Carpenter retorted, turning back toward the stairs.
Ollie and I stared at each other for a long, awkward moment after she’d gone. He cleared his throat, took off his glasses, and began cleaning them on his shirt again.
“Well, Miss Mortensen, you turn eighteen in a week and graduate in a month. Are you making the necessary arrangements to live on your own?”
“I applied for a job. I mean, I have a job.”
