I don’t cry. Worse, I cried in front of Angel. Let a guy know he’s hurt you or your down, and he’s got the upper hand. Some of them enjoy it. Tears, a fight, the whole nine yards—it’s a turn on. Angel’s not that kind of man, but he does respect strength in his opponent, and I just showed a belly full of weakness. Rory is okay with moving the RV out to the ranch. We can run an extension cord to the bunkhouse for free power, and I suspect he may have erotic designs on one or more of Angel’s cowboys. I’m not thrilled about moving closer to Angel, but the proximity is a minor concession in the war we’re fighting. He’s waiting outside for us when Rory and I pull up. He motions for us to pull into a shady spot beneath a downright ancient grove of California oaks. It’s actually gorgeous. I park the Bug, and Angel’s right there, opening the door for me.
