Batteries Not Required Read Free Page A

laughed.
    â€œWhat?” I shouted, mortified and still struggling.
    â€œPitch,” he said. “You might have to take off your pants.”
    â€œIn your dreams,” I retorted, and struggled some more, with equal futility.
    Grinning, Tristan swung down out of the saddle, took a grip on the waistband of my slacks at either side, and wrenched me to my feet. I felt the linen tear away at the back, and my derriere blowing in the breeze. If I’d had my purse, I’d have used it to cover myself, but it was still in the rental car.
    My predicament struck Tristan as funny, of course. While I was trying to hold my pants together, he hurled me bodily onto the horse, and mounted behind me. That stirred some visceral memories, ones I would have preferred to ignore, but it was difficult, under the circumstances.
    â€œI need my purse,” I said.
    â€œLater,” he replied, close to my ear.
    â€œAnd my suitcase.” I’m nothing if not persistent.
    â€œLike I’m going to ride into town with a suitcase ,” Tristan said. “It could spook Samson.”
    â€œWhy can’t we just borrow one of these trucks?”
    â€œWe’ve got a horse.” I guess he considered that a reasonable answer.
    Tears of frustration burned behind my eyes. I’d hoped to slip in and out of Parable unnoticed. Now, I’d be arriving on horseback, with the back of my pants torn away. Shades of Lady Godiva.
    â€œHold on,” Tristan said, sending another hot shiver through my system as the words brushed, warm and husky, past my ear.
    He didn’t have to tell me twice. When he steered that horse down into the ditch—one false step and we’d have been in free fall, Tristan, the gelding, and me—I gripped the saddle horn with both hands and held on for dear life. I would have closed my eyes, but between clinging for dear life and controlling my bladder, I’d exhausted my physical resources.
    We bumped up on the other side of the trailer and, once we were clear of the pickup trucks, Tristan nudged the horse into a trot.
    I bounced ignobly against a part of his anatomy I would have preferred not to think about, and by that time I’d given up on trying to hold the seat of my slacks together. He was rock-hard under those faded jeans of his, and I sincerely hoped he was suffering as grievously as I was.
    Parable hadn’t changed much since I’d left, except for the addition of a huge discount store at one end of town. People honked and waved as we rode down the main drag, and Tristan, the show-off, occasionally tipped his hat.
    We passed the Bucking Bronco Tavern, now closed, with its windows boarded up, and I felt a pang of nostalgia. Mom and I weren’t real close, but I couldn’t help remembering happy times in our little apartment behind the bar, with its linoleum floors and shabby furniture. My tiny bedroom was butt up against the back wall of the tavern, and I used to go to sleep to the click of pool balls and the wail of the jukebox. I felt safe, knowing my mother was close by, even if she was refereeing brawls, topping off draft beers, and flirting for tips.
    Behind the stores, huge pines jutted toward the supersized sky, and I caught glimmers of Preacher Lake. In the winter, Parable looks like a vintage postcard. In fact, it’s so 1950s that I half expected to blink and see everything in black and white.
    I had reservations at the Lakeside Motel, since that was the only hostelry in town, besides Mamie Sweet’s Bed and Breakfast. Mom wouldn’t have booked me a room there, since she and Mamie had once had a hair-pulling match over a farm implement salesman from Billings. Turned out he was married anyway, but as far as I knew, the feud was still on.
    Tristan brought the horse to a stop in front of the Lakeside, with nary a mention of the B&B, another sign that Mom and Mamie had never had that Hallmark moment. He dismounted and reached up to help me