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manicured, gold-painted fingertip. As
she walked by Ben, she brushed his lips with that fingertip lightly
and murmured, “Later.”
    And stupid, pathetic Jane understood. Or
rather, she was cruelly reminded:
    Samara was the sun.
    Jane was nothing but a shadow, and Samara
wasn’t about to let her forget it.
    ***
    “So, we have the house all set up per your
instructions, and—”
    “Later,” said Jane, looking out the window,
adjusting her cap. She wasn’t ready to start working just yet. She
softened her tone, offering him small smile. “We can talk about all
of it later, if that’s okay with you. When we get there.”
    “Sure. Whatever you say.” He ran his hands
over the wheel, and she sensed he was wondering if he should make
conversation. He turned to her. “This is the, uh, Bozeman Pass
we’re heading through right now.”
    Jane glanced over at Lars, then back out the
window, noting the mountains up ahead, capped with white. The sky
was big and bright blue with picture-perfect puffs of clouds at
pretty intervals. She considered taking out her camera, but you
never got great shots riding along in a car…plus, she was too
relaxed with the afternoon sunlight streaming in through her
window, making her tired body feel mellow and warm.
    “Bozeman Pass?”
    “Yes, ma’am. To the left over there is the
Bridger mountain range and out your window is the Gallatin Range.
We’re about to pass between the two ranges.”
    “Ergo, pass .”
    “Ergo, pass,” he repeated, seeming to warm
to his subject. “You’ve heard of Sacajawea, right?”
    Honestly, it had been a long time since Jane
had studied the history of American exploration, but she had always
admired the story of the intrepid young Indian guide who carried
her infant son on her back from North Dakota to the Pacific and
back again. She had admired her strength and bravery.
    She nodded to Lars.
    “Well, she guided Lewis and Clark through
this pass.”
    Jane looked around admiringly at the
landscape, which wasn’t very developed, aside from the four-lane
highway on which they were traveling. It wasn’t hard to imagine
what it looked like two hundred years ago.
    “Would have been a tough journey, shackled
to a man she’d been sold to with his baby on her back.”
    “Whoa!” He whipped his head to glance at her
then turned quickly back to the road. “You actually know her
story!”
    “Sure,” Jane conceded. “Hard one to
forget.”
    “Huh,” he uttered and Jane heard the
surprise in his voice. “Nobody ever knows the story or remembers
the details.”
    “Well, Just-Lars, I guess I’m not nobody.”
She grimaced at her awkward grammar. “Whatever that means.”
    “Means you’re somebody, I guess.”
    She knew his words didn’t have any special
meaning, but they made Jane smile as she looked out the window at
the Gallatin Range and she thought, You’ll be wasted on my
cousin.
    “Hey…would you like some music?” he asked.
“We’ve got a little bit of a drive ahead. An hour or so.”
    Jane shifted toward him. “Why not? What’cha
got?”
    “Oh, I meant the radio.”
    She gestured to the radio/CD player. “No
CDs?”
    He didn’t answer her right away and seemed
to be considering her question. “I mean, I have CDs. But,
they’re—”
    “Are they dirty?”
    “Wh-what?”
    “Dirty. Like dirty lyrics or something?”
    “No!”
    “Racist? Like rappers griping about the
’hood?”
    “No!”
    “Hmmm. Celtic? You into the Enya, yoga,
soothing sort of vibe?”
    “No.”
    “Japanese flute? Sitar? Or—or Indian? You
like Bollywood movies?”
    “You are very strange.”
    “I’ve been called worse.” She readjusted her
cap, tucking some stray curls back under, trying not to look at him
and smile.
    “Sorry,” Lars said. “That wasn’t
professional. You’re questions are unusual .”
    “Actually, I preferred strange ,
Just-Lars.”
    He sighed. “I like…I mean, I like music from
the ’60s. When I’m driving alone. I