Page 9 of Steinbeck (The Minnesota Kingstons #5)

“When I turned eighteen, I came back for Nim. I’d purchased a secondhand pickup with a camper bed—not anything fancy, but enough for us to leave Rapid City.

We got as far as a rest area south of Nashville when the entire rig just sort of blew up.

The radiator exploded, the head cooked, and there we were, broke and a couple of teenagers with nothing.

I saw my life spooling out like my mother’s, and. .. I got desperate.”

She drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around them.

“A family had stopped at the rest area to walk their dog—there was a whole horde of kids. And they were traveling in this conversion van, and I don’t know why but I thought, yeah, that was a good idea.

So I dragged Nim over to the van, jumped in, and. ..”

“You stole the car.”

She nodded.

“That’s grand theft.”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t know why her eyes filled. Sheesh, she’d put this so far behind her.

Maybe because, “I was caught. And then the man, the dad, Boz Davidson, whose van we stole...” She looked at Stein.

“He lied. He said that he’d given permission for us to use it.

That he’d made a mistake and didn’t realize we’d taken it.

I don’t know why—but he made up this story.

He even said that we were his foster children.

” She shook her head. “He bought us dinner. Asked where we were going.”

“Where were you going?”

“Florida. The ocean. I read this book to Nim when we were kids. I stole it from the library?—”

He laughed. And it wasn’t harsh or brutal, just a chuckle. “We all have a library-book theft in our background.”

Oh. But his laughter burrowed into her, loosened the story’s terrible grip.

“It was called Island of the Blue Dolphins . It’s about a girl who spent eighteen years alone on an island off California.

It sort of made us— me —believe that I could survive on my own.

” She sighed. “And maybe I could have, but I had Nim, so...”

“What happened?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Davidson took us in. See, he really was a foster parent—all those kids weren’t his. But they were, sort of, because he treated Nim and me like we were too. He was—is—a good man. Raised horses. Lived on a farm. It was perfect... ”

Silence, and in it, too many memories, so she sighed.

“I stayed for a while, but in the end I was too angry and scared and I...” She shook her head.

“I left Nim there, and I ran. Boz caught up with me. And instead of bringing me back to the farm, he introduced me to a man named Pike Maguire. He founded the Black Swans.”

“How old were you?”

“Nineteen. And suddenly, I had a job and a future and a sisterhood, and I became a Swan.”

“And you never looked back.”

Never? But she nodded. “So, see. Emberly is... complicated, and broken and needy, and Phoenix is strong and capable and...”

“A survivor.” He had finished his coffee. He considered her. “But it’s Emberly who gave Phoenix the skills and courage to be the Swan she is today.”

She had nothing for that as he went to the kitchen area and refilled his mug. When he returned, he held a couple bags of Doritos. Tossed one to her. “Here you go, partner.”

She caught it. Stared at him. “You did hear me, right? I don’t do... partners. Look at what happened in Cuba—already you’re regretting our... whatever that was.”

“Teamwork.” He crunched a chip. “And that’s not what I regret.” He had such piercing eyes, she had to look away.

“This is going to end badly,” she said softly, almost to herself.

“As long as I don’t get blown up, we’ll be fine.”

She looked at him and must have worn horror on her face, because he grinned.

Oh, for the —“Stein. Don’t kid yourself. Sure, we have... moments.”

He raised one sexy eyebrow.

“But this”—she gestured between them—“you, me. We can’t work. We’re like?—”

“Fireworks.” He put a chip in his mouth.

“I was going to say a cluster bomb. With lots of shrapnel and internal injuries.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“How about this?” She leaned forward and enunciated each word. “It. Can’t. Work. Steinbeck.”

He stopped, a chip halfway to his mouth. “Don’t make that bet quite yet, Emberly. ” Then he winked.

She leaned back and looked out the window. Hated the way his wink stirred up all the wrong feelings.

Very wrong, inconvenient feelings.

He grinned at her, still crunching.

Oh, this was going to be a long, very long, trip.

* * *

“There’s no need for a blindfold.”

Harper stood in the opening of the oversized garage in the town of Duck Lake, the early September night warm on her skin, stars winking overhead.

“I don’t want you to peek.” Jack stood behind her, his soft voice close to her ear, casting over her, raising just the right amount of tingles.

Tonight was the night, she knew it in her soul, and when Jack had shown up on her doorstep, showered, shaved, smelling like a man with a plan, yeah, this was it .

He was going to propose. Finally and hallelujah.

Although she might have picked a picnic by the lake or on the dock of his family’s lakeside inn. Maybe in town, a fancy dinner at the Paddle House.

Or they could have flown down to his place in Melbourne Beach, and he could have bent the knee in the sand, the ocean as witness.

She’d even have been thrilled if he’d simply popped the question on the patio of her mother’s home, where she was staying. With Phillipa gone on a cruise, it was the perfect setting for such a moment.

But okay, the garage where they’d spent the better part of almost nine months would be Just. Fine.

Maybe it was symbolic. The start of their life together on the steps of Flo, their—no, Jack’s—1970s-era mint-green city bus, restored to be a home on wheels. But she’d expended enough sanding, painting, and general sweat equity in the monster to call it hers too.

Besides, when Jack had first shown it to her, he’d said... well, he’d said magic words to her. “Someday, Harper Malone, I’m hoping you’ll be my wife.”

Not a proposal, of course. Because that would come with a real question, but...

Except he hadn’t brought it up again. Not once during all the hours they’d overhauled the engine (although she had learned the difference between a carburetor and a fuel injector and how to adjust the valve clearances).

Not when they’d installed the kitchen cupboards and redone the plumbing (although she had learned how to install a new kitchen faucet).

And not once when they’d run all-new electrical through the bus and he’d asked her opinion on where to hang the flatscreen television.

He’d even taken her suggestion on adding shiplap to the kitchen walls, installing a retro lime-green Frigidaire refrigerator, and adding a bench with a hidden tabletop that converted into a queen bed.

He’d installed the queen bed, painted the walls her suggested hazy mint green, and even added a laundry area—also her idea—behind the wet room while she’d been in New York City meeting her new publisher, so that felt promising.

Still. Not a word. Maybe he’d wanted to surprise her.

“Okay, careful now.” He guided her, his strong hands on her shoulders, into the garage, rich with the scent of sawdust, diesel from a rest test of the engine, and even burnt coffee, a hazard of Jack’s tendency to overfocus on a project.

“I won’t trip. I know this place by heart,” Harper said.

The workbench along the long wall with all his woodworking tools, not to mention the bench mechanic’s box on wheels.

And on the other side of the bus, almost a living area, with a couple of worn floral-patterned overstuffed chairs he’d gotten from a discard pile at an estate sale.

He spent hours in the garage after work at the King’s Inn, reading, planning, sketching. Thinking.

No one would have the faintest idea that Jack possessed a portfolio in the seven digits, a beachside home, and lived off his investments.

Then again, he’d landed a bestseller years ago, back when he’d wanted to be a lawyer, and had cracked the case of a Minnesota girl gone missing. It had ignited the remodel of his first bus and too many years on the road, searching for lost souls.

And running from her.

But he’d returned and was building them a second chance.

She’d probably been too absent recently, finishing her second book and helping Penelope, a.k.a. Penny Pepper, on research for her murder podcast. A cold case, now solved, of a serial killer in Alaska.

“Yes, but tonight is different.” He moved her over to the bus—she knew that much—but then brought her all the way to the back. Strange backdrop for a proposal, but...

But she’d marry Jack regardless of where he proposed. Tropical beach, lakeside picnic, or in the metal garage, in front of an old city bus.

“Stay.” He moved away from her, and she heard wood creaking.

“Okay. Take off your blindfold.”

Admittedly, she’d expected him on one knee, in front of her, a ring box open, so when she took off the handkerchief and spotted him standing in front of a folded ladder that led to the top of the bus...

Okay, her shocked expression felt justified.

Jack grinned at her. “I made a rooftop verandah.”

Oh. But she conjured up a smile. “Nice.”

“Yeah. So, the stairs are strapped to the back, and they simply fold down, and then you access the verandah from the rear. C’mon.” He held out his hand.

Okay, so maybe this was the moment. He certainly grinned at her, his beautiful blue eyes shining, as if he had a secret.

And he did seem a little gussied up tonight—a clean flannel shirt, his hair just a little long and curly, wet from being freshly washed.

And oh, he smelled good, a little bit of cologne lifting from his skin.

Truth—she’d do just about anything for this man.

So she took his hand and climbed the stairs—probably silly of her to have put on a dress, but... engagement, right?