“I’m going to hit the gym.”
“Better stretch out those hamstrings first.”
Irritation crawled up her back like a beetle. “What are you, the track coach?”
“No point getting pissed at me because I noticed you were pissed.”
“Maybe not, but you’re right here.” Still, she dropped down into a hamstring stretch.
“From what I’ve heard, you’ve got cause to be.”
She lifted her head, aimed that icy blue stare.
“Let me sum up.” He opened the kit bag he’d tossed on the edge of the track, took out some water. “Matt’s brother and the blond cook spent a good portion of last season tangling the sheets. Historically, said cook tangled many other sheets with dexterity and aplomb.”
“Aplomb.”
“It’s a polite way of saying she banged often, well and without too much discrimination.”
“That also sounded polite.”
“I was raised well. In addition, Jim also tended to be generous with his attentions.”
“Get you.”
“However,” Gull continued, “during the tangling and banging, the cook decided she was in love with Jim— that I got from Lynn, who got it from the blonde—and the blonde broke the hearts of many by focusing her dexterity exclusively on Jim, and closed her ears and eyes to the fact he didn’t exactly reciprocate.”
“You could write a book.”
“The thought’s crossed. Toward the end of this long, hot summer, the cook gets pregnant, which, rumor has it, since she avoided this eventuality previously, may have been on purpose.”
“Probably.” It was one of the things she’d already considered, and one of the things that depressed her.
“Sad,” he said, and left it at that. “The cook claims she told Jim, who greeted the news with joy and exaltation. Though I didn’t know him, that strikes me as sketchy. Plans to marry were immediately launched, which strikes sketchier yet. Then more sadly yet, Jim’s killed during a jump which the ensuing investigation determines was his error—but the cook blamed his jump partner, which would be you, and tried to stab you with a kitchen knife.”
“She didn’t exactly try to stab me.” The hell of it was, Rowan thought, she couldn’t figure out why she kept defending the lunatic Dolly on that score. “Or didn’t have time to because Marg yanked the knife away from her almost as soon as she’d picked it up.”
“Points for Marg.” He watched her face as he spoke, cat eyes steady and patient. “Grief takes a lot of forms, and a lot of those are twisted and ugly. But blaming you, or anyone on that load, for Jim’s accident is just stupid. Continuing to is mean and stupid, and self-defeating.”
She didn’t want to talk about this. Why was she? She couldn’t seem to help it, she realized, with him watching her intently, speaking so calmly.
“How do you know she still blames me?”
The sunlight picked out the gold in his brown hair as he drank down more water. “To wind it up, the cook takes off, and finds religion—or so she claims and maybe even believes. Not enough grace and faith to tell the father’s grieving family about the baby, until she comes back to base looking for work. So I call bullshit on the God factor.”
“Okay.” Maybe she couldn’t help it because he’d laid it out flat, and in exactly the way she saw it. “Wow.”
“Not quite finished. You seek out the cook, engage her in private conversation. Though, of course, privacy is slim pickings around here. During the not-so-private conversation, the cook becomes very steamed, does a lot of snarling and pointing, then storms off. Which leads me to conclude finding religion didn’t include finding forgiveness, charity or good sense.”
“How did you get all this? And I do mean all.”
“I’m a good listener. If you care, the general consensus on base is she had Jim’s kid—and Matt’s niece—so she should get some support. In fact, Cards is taking donations for a college fund in Jim’s name.”
“Yeah,” Rowan replied. “He’d think of that. He’s just built that way.”
“The consensus continues that if she gives you grief or talks trash about you, she gets one warning. Second time, we meet with L.B., lay it out and she goes. You’ve got no say in it.”
“I—”
“None.” The single syllable remained calm, and absolutely final. “Everybody pretty much wants her to keep her job. And nobody’s going to let her keep it if she causes trouble. So if you don’t agree with that, you’re outvoted. You might as well stop being pissed off and depressed because it’s not going to do you any good.”
“I guess I don’t agree because it’s me. If it was somebody else, I’d be right there.”
“I get that.”
“Leaving out a lot of stuff I’m not in the mood to talk about, my mother died when I was twelve.”
“That’s hard.”
“They weren’t together, and... that’s the lot of stuff I’m not in the mood to talk about. My father raised me, with his parents taking a lot of the weight during the season when he was still jumping. What I’m saying is, I know it’s not easy to be a single parent, even with help and support. I’m willing to cut her some slack.”
“She’s getting slack already, Rowan. She’s working in the kitchen. It’ll be up to her if she stays.”
They’d walked back while they talked. Now he gestured toward the gym. “Feel like lifting?”
“Yeah. Can I use this?” She tapped his MP3 player. “I want to check out your playlist.”
“Working out without the tunes is a sacrifice.” He pulled it off, handed it to her. “Consider that when you’re lining up the reasons to sleep with me.”
“I’ll put it at the top of the list.”
“Nice. So... what did it bump down?”
She laughed and walked inside ahead of him.
Once she finished her daily PT, cleaned up, she hiked to the cookhouse to fuel up on carbs.
In the dining hall, Stovic chowed down on bacon and eggs and biscuits while Cards ragged on him for being a malingerer between forkfuls of pancakes. Gull had beaten her there and was already building a stack of his own from the breakfast buffet.
Rowan grabbed a plate. She flopped a pancake onto it, laid two slices of bacon over that, added another pancake, two more slices of bacon. She covered that with a third pancake over which she dumped a hefty spoonful of berries.
“What do you call that?” Gull asked her.
“Mine.” She carried it to the table, dropped into a chair. “What’s the word, Cards?”
“Plumbago.”
“That’s a good one. Sounds like a geriatric condition, but it’s a flower, right?”
“Shrub. Half point for you.”
“The flower on the shrub, or plant, is also called plumbago,” Gull pointed out.
Cards considered. “I guess that’s true. Full point.”
“Yippee.” Rowan dumped syrup over her bacon pancakes. “How’s the leg, Chainsaw?”
“Stitches itch.” He glanced over as Dobie wandered in, grinned. “But at least it’s not my face.”
“At least I didn’t do it to myself,” Dobie tossed back, and studied the offerings. “If I hadn’t lost that bet, I’d’ve joined up just for the breakfasts.” To prove it, he took a sample of everything.
“Your eye looks better,” Rowan told him.
He could open both now, and she recognized the symphonic bruising as healing.
“How are the ribs?”
“Colorful, but they don’t ache much. L.B.’s got me doing a shitload of sit-down work.” He pulled out a bottle of Tabasco, pumped it over his eggs. “I asked if I could have some time today. I figured I’d walk on down, check out your daddy’s operation. Watch some of those pay-to-jump types come down.”
“You should. A lot of people make a picnic of it. Marg would pack you up something.”
“Maybe I’ll go with you.”
Dobie wagged an impaled sausage at Stovic. “You’ve got that gimp leg.”
