Cry Me a River by Nancy Holder Page B

wheel cover and dragging her weight like an anchor. Clay jerked his head over his shoulder, eyes wide. He was very scared.
    “Damn it, what are you doing?” Grace shouted, her boots kicking up tremendous amounts of dust as Clay somehow managed to stop.
    “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Clay cried. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. “We were just trying to figure out how it worked. Then I couldn’t stop it.”
    “You people are in so much trouble,” a man said, approaching. He looked at Grace. “I’m the range safety officer and I can’t begin to tell you how many rules you’ve broken. I
told
that priest to watch his group—”
    “You’re damn lucky you didn’t fall over,” the second man declared, trotting over to them. He had a grizzled beard and a ball cap that read DESERT STORM. He pointed at the boys. “That’s my ATV. I told you you could
sit
on it, that’s all.”
    “That was what we were doing, Dr. Anderson,” Clay said. “But I hit something and it took off.”
    The man grunted.
    “Th-that’s t-true,” Forrest piped up, stammering. His face was so white it was almost gray. But he was smiling very faintly. He turned to Grace. “W-we just wanted to s-sit on it.”
    “Okay, Clay,” Grace said; maybe to someone else, she would have sounded angry. But she was shaking with terror; she stuffed her hands in her jacket to hide them. Then, on second thought, she pulled them out and held them in front of herself, to show Clay just how frightened she had been. He grimaced.
    She could imagine going joyriding on an ATV: Hell, how many times had she driven Rhetta’s dad’s tractor as young as Clay, completely drunk on cheap wine, wearing a bandanna across her eyes? She remembered riding it backward, balancing on the seat, making out with some boy as the tractor took out part of the wooden fence.
    How often had Rhetta’s mom yelled at them, “And if one of you jumped off a bridge, would the other one jump, too?”
    Rhetta would always say no. And Grace mostassuredly would think yes even if she didn’t come out and say it. Why should Rhetta have all the fun?
    “I’m so sorry, Aunt Grace,” Clay said, his apple cheeks red, his gaze lowered in shame. “We didn’t mean for it to go.”
    But they hadn’t exactly minded.
    “Is there any damage?” she asked the owner as he inspected it. “Because Clay will be happy to pay for it.”
    Clay went pale.
    “You clipped that rock.” The man frowned, dropped to one knee, and ran his hands along the side of the vehicle. “A dent and some scraped paint. A bit of body work. I’ll have to get an estimate.”
    Grace gave Clay a look. “I’m sorry, sir,” Clay said. “I’ll pay for it.”
    “You sure will,” he said. He ticked his attention to Grace. “Or your mama will.”
    “She’s not my … okay,” Clay said.
    “Let’s go talk to Father Alan,” Grace suggested. She pulled her card out of her wallet. “You can let us know about the cost, sir.”
    He read her card. “Cop? You?”
    She let it go as they all walked back toward the parish launch site. Part of her wanted to shake Clay; another part of her wanted to go for a ride, too. She’d wave her hand over her head as if she were breaking a bucking bronco, screaming at the top of her lungs. But she had to be the adult here. She settled for reaching out her hand to tousle Clay’s hair, but instead she pulled him into her arms. She held him for a few seconds, then let him move away, because, after all, he was too old for such things.
    As they trudged in formation, Clay walking like a condemned criminal, Forrest kind of hopped forward and smiled up at her. “That was awesome,” he confessed. “I’ve never done anything like that in my life.”
    She couldn’t help her grin. “Well, Forrest, turns out you’re a daredevil. Who knew?”
    “Yeah.” He mock-posed his arms like a macho guy, smile as big and bright as they came. He was immature for his age, acting younger than Clay.