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measured words and smoldering eye contact. Because he was a man who made her feel very much like a grown woman.
    At twenty-four, Roan had had several relationships with men, one that lasted almost six months. But she'd also had time to build a wall against intimacy that had seemed solid enough to keep out any serious bids for her heart. And she needed that wall to stay firmly in place.
    "It's the deal," Cal said, his voice hard. "Take it or leave it."
    Their eyes met and held. The only sound was the creaking of beams somewhere in the upper floor of the ruined house. In Roan's old bedroom, perhaps, which had looked out over a flowering dogwood and a view of the town far in the distance. Roan curled her fingers into fists and took a breath. It was just lunch—she could survive an hour in a public place with anyone, even this man who'd interrupted her search for treasure, who'd never understand what was at stake.
    "Not unless I have your word I can finish looking for what's mine."
    "Can't let you do that." He shook his head, his jaw set. "You'll have to work that out with Mimi."
    More stony silence. "Fine," she finally lied. She'd just have to find a way.
    "And I'm driving you home."
    "I have my bike."
    "It's almost three in the morning. And it's about to rain. I'm not asking. What's your name, anyway?"
    "Roan," she said, and she saw him try it soundlessly, moving his lips to the shape of her name as he helped her up, folding her hand into his like it was made to fit there.

CHAPTER THREE
    The bike was surprising.
    It didn't look like much on the outside, but as Cal rolled it toward his truck, it glided as though it had just rolled off the assembly line. Someone had done some custom work on the gears, and the wheels rolled straight and true.
    Roan looked like she wanted to bolt. But as he lifted the bike into the truck bed, she got into the cab and put on her seat belt.
    "I'm on Myrtle Street," she said, staring straight ahead. "Two blocks past the tire store on Second."
    Cal nodded and started the truck, backing carefully into a turn before heading down the lane toward the main road. He glanced at the bunkhouse; the only light on was in his own bedroom. His roommates were all asleep. It would be close to four o'clock when he got back, too late to try to get any more sleep. At five-thirty, Matthew would be up making coffee and starting breakfast. And Cal had plenty of experience waiting out the hours before dawn.
    They didn't speak. Cal glanced at her as he drove, keeping an eye on the road ahead of him. Even in the middle of the night the trucks made the route through town out to the rigs, loaded down with equipment and oil and gravel and sand. The rigs never slept: the night shift would end at seven, a fresh crew coming in to take over until their own twelve hours were finished. Then they would return, exhausted, to the man camps and apartments and motels they called home during their hitches, which lasted weeks at a time. Cal was one of the lucky ones, with a real home, and friends to make it bearable.
    "I didn't need a ride," she finally said. She sounded angry, but somehow Cal knew it wasn't all directed at him. "I could have biked."
    "All right."
    He wasn't going to give her an argument, even if that's what she was looking for. She was older than he'd first thought. Yesterday afternoon, he'd glimpsed only her slim, wiry figure and all that hair and thought she was a teenager, maybe a runaway. But the woman sitting next to him in his truck was all grown up, not much younger than his own twenty-eight years. Underneath the battered leather jacket and the old sweatshirt, her body bore a woman's curves, her hips and ass fitting the old jeans perfectly. Her face was all angles and planes, full lips and cheekbones and narrow navy-blue eyes that tilted up slightly at the corners, making her look like she had a thousand secrets. She'd be gorgeous if she pulled her hair back enough for anyone to get a look at her face, but he had