shades of darkness.
“Hope.” The word was rough, almost painful, as though it had been dragged unwillingly from his throat.
She woke in a rush, disoriented.
He had been expecting it. He held her shoulder down so that she couldn’t sit up before she was fully awake. His hand was all that saved her from cracking her head on Behemoth’s metal belly in the first heedless instant of waking up.
Her eyes opened dark amber, a color as clear and pure as the evening itself. For a moment she was embarrassed; then she smiled crookedly, accepting the fact that she had fallen asleep on the most interesting man she had met in her life.
“Did my snoring keep you awake?” she asked wryly.
Rio had seen both the instant of unease and her humorous acceptance of reality. His smile transformed his face the way moonrise transforms night. Lines that had been harsh became gentle, and angles that had been forbidding became merely strong.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but you didn’t snore even once.”
“Must have been your lucky day,” she said, stretching luxuriously. “God, I didn’t know the ground could be such a soft mattress.”
“It was,” he said, referring to her first comment about luck. “It isn’t,” he added, referring to the softness of the ground.
She blinked and shook her head. Before she could ask for an explanation, Rio stood and went over to his horse. He led the mare to the tank and watched while she plunged her muzzle into the clean water.
After a few moments Hope stood, dusted off her jeans with her palms, and walked over to Rio. She would have given a lot for the freedom to peel off her clothes and float for just a few moments in the cool water. With a small sigh she turned away from the tempting liquid.
“The only water this tank will ever see is Turner water,” Rio said, watching his mare drink. Then he turned quickly, catching the despair on Hope’s face as his words sank in. “If you want me to drill here, forget it. It would be a waste of my time, your money, and your cows’ lives.”
Silently Hope counted the rings expanding through the water as the horse drank. It wasn’t that Rio’s words were untrue or even unexpected. But they were so very final.
It was the end of her dreams spoken in a stranger’s calm, certain voice.
She wanted to protest, to ask Rio how he could be so sure, but she didn’t. In the quiet, deep center of herself she didn’t doubt him. She sensed that he knew the land in a way that couldn’t be described or wholly understood. It had to be accepted on trust, the same way she trusted the sun to rise in the morning and stars to come in the evening.
Hope fought against the useless tears closing her throat. She felt defenseless, neither truly asleep nor yet awake, suspended between the end of one dream and the beginning of an unwelcome awakening.
She had enough money to drill her namesake well deeper. She didn’t have the resources to find and drill an entirely new, probably much deeper well from scratch. She didn’t realize how much she had secretly counted on being able to revive the Hope until now, when she finally and fully accepted the fact that her well was dead.
The despair was numbing.
“Hope—”
“It’s all right,” she said huskily, interrupting him. She knew that Rio hadn’t meant to hurt her with his blunt assessment of her dream. “I understand.”
He wondered if she truly did. Then he cursed himself for his unforgiving description of her well. Yet as long as she held on to an unrealistic dream, there would be no way to give her one that had at least a fighting chance of coming true.
And that was what she had asked him for. A fighting chance.
“I hoped that if I just drilled farther down, through the bedrock, I’d strike artesian water,” she said in a low voice. Then, slipping through her defenses, came the dying cries of her dream. “Are you sure? How can you be so sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Silently Rio
“Hope.” The word was rough, almost painful, as though it had been dragged unwillingly from his throat.
She woke in a rush, disoriented.
He had been expecting it. He held her shoulder down so that she couldn’t sit up before she was fully awake. His hand was all that saved her from cracking her head on Behemoth’s metal belly in the first heedless instant of waking up.
Her eyes opened dark amber, a color as clear and pure as the evening itself. For a moment she was embarrassed; then she smiled crookedly, accepting the fact that she had fallen asleep on the most interesting man she had met in her life.
“Did my snoring keep you awake?” she asked wryly.
Rio had seen both the instant of unease and her humorous acceptance of reality. His smile transformed his face the way moonrise transforms night. Lines that had been harsh became gentle, and angles that had been forbidding became merely strong.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but you didn’t snore even once.”
“Must have been your lucky day,” she said, stretching luxuriously. “God, I didn’t know the ground could be such a soft mattress.”
“It was,” he said, referring to her first comment about luck. “It isn’t,” he added, referring to the softness of the ground.
She blinked and shook her head. Before she could ask for an explanation, Rio stood and went over to his horse. He led the mare to the tank and watched while she plunged her muzzle into the clean water.
After a few moments Hope stood, dusted off her jeans with her palms, and walked over to Rio. She would have given a lot for the freedom to peel off her clothes and float for just a few moments in the cool water. With a small sigh she turned away from the tempting liquid.
“The only water this tank will ever see is Turner water,” Rio said, watching his mare drink. Then he turned quickly, catching the despair on Hope’s face as his words sank in. “If you want me to drill here, forget it. It would be a waste of my time, your money, and your cows’ lives.”
Silently Hope counted the rings expanding through the water as the horse drank. It wasn’t that Rio’s words were untrue or even unexpected. But they were so very final.
It was the end of her dreams spoken in a stranger’s calm, certain voice.
She wanted to protest, to ask Rio how he could be so sure, but she didn’t. In the quiet, deep center of herself she didn’t doubt him. She sensed that he knew the land in a way that couldn’t be described or wholly understood. It had to be accepted on trust, the same way she trusted the sun to rise in the morning and stars to come in the evening.
Hope fought against the useless tears closing her throat. She felt defenseless, neither truly asleep nor yet awake, suspended between the end of one dream and the beginning of an unwelcome awakening.
She had enough money to drill her namesake well deeper. She didn’t have the resources to find and drill an entirely new, probably much deeper well from scratch. She didn’t realize how much she had secretly counted on being able to revive the Hope until now, when she finally and fully accepted the fact that her well was dead.
The despair was numbing.
“Hope—”
“It’s all right,” she said huskily, interrupting him. She knew that Rio hadn’t meant to hurt her with his blunt assessment of her dream. “I understand.”
He wondered if she truly did. Then he cursed himself for his unforgiving description of her well. Yet as long as she held on to an unrealistic dream, there would be no way to give her one that had at least a fighting chance of coming true.
And that was what she had asked him for. A fighting chance.
“I hoped that if I just drilled farther down, through the bedrock, I’d strike artesian water,” she said in a low voice. Then, slipping through her defenses, came the dying cries of her dream. “Are you sure? How can you be so sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Silently Rio
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