Authors: Linda Lael Miller
Furthermore, she needed to scour her favorite cookbooks and online recipe files, throw together a menu for tomorrow night, when Zane and Nash and the mysterious Cleo were coming over for supper,
and
shop for whatever ingredients she didn’t have on hand.
She made another attempt to put girls’ night out off for another week. “Honestly, Ames, I can’t,” she said, but she totally lacked conviction. It
would
be nice to spend some time with her friends, and she
had
been neglecting them. She knew that.
So, obviously, did Amy. “Two hours,” she cajoled, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. “That’s all I’m asking, just two paltry hours with your pals. A mug of beer or a glass of wine, a couple of tacos, a little twangy pathos from the jukebox, and you’re good. Back in the game.”
If only it were that easy, Brylee thought. “I’d need to take Snidely home first, feed him and change clothes,” she said reluctantly. One problem with hiring people you’d known since finger-painting days—they weren’t afraid to pester you to death when they wanted something.
Amy’s pretty, still-girlish face flared with a sudden, sunny grin. “Great!” she said, looking down at her jeans and T-shirt, grubby from a day in the warehouse, packing orders. “You didn’t think I’d be seen in public wearing
this
getup, did you? I’m stopping off at home to get myself all spiffed up—hair spray, makeup, the works—and I’ll have to wait for Bobby to pick up the kids for the weekend, too.” She paused. “He’d
better
not be late, either.”
Bobby was Amy’s ex-husband and the father of her two children, three-year-old Mandy and six-year-old Sara Jane. Bobby might have been a lousy spouse, but he was a good father, and both girls adored him.
“Oh, all right,” Brylee said. Then, still ambivalent, she took her purse out of the bottom drawer of her desk and rummaged through it for her car keys as she rose from her chair. By then, Amy had given a satisfied nod, waggled her fingers in a so-long-for-now wave and hurried out, probably afraid Brylee would change her mind if she got half a chance.
Snidely strolling amiably along beside her, she set the alarm, locked up for the night and shed a little guilt by deciding to stop off at the supermarket on the way home from the Boot Scoot for necessary supplies. In the meantime, she’d take her patient dog back to the ranch house, throw a stick or a tennis ball for him to fetch in the yard till he tired of the game and give him his ration of kibble after that. While Snidely was munching, she’d pick out a few recipes, take a quick inventory of her refrigerator and pantry shelves, dash off a grocery list and, finally, do what she could with her work-bedraggled appearance.
Or, she reflected, as she drove through the summer twilight toward home, she could call or text Amy and say something had come up and, darn it all, she wasn’t going to make it to the Boot Scoot that night, after all.
Except that would be lying. On the few occasions in her entire life when Brylee had stretched the truth, even in a small way, it had always snapped back on her like a rubber band, stinging on impact.
She sighed, looked over at Snidely, who was sitting contentedly in the front passenger seat, wearing his special harness and buckled in for the short ride back to Timber Creek, and gave a wan smile.
“Do I look pale to you?” she asked. “Like I might be coming down with something? No?” Brylee gave a rueful chuckle. “I was afraid that was going to be your answer.”
* * *
A
FTER
THE
PEACEFUL
ride on Blackjack, Zane’s day descended into a state of continuous and frazzled chaos.
Cleo, probably operating on the theory that she who hesitates is lost, had already hired on three of the contracting companies she’d called in to bid on the renovations—an outfit to tear out old flooring and put down new, a passel of electricians and, of course, plumbers.
She was in her element, ordering people around and spending somebody else’s money. Namely,
his.
Not that it mattered, because when Cleo was happy, everybody was happy, and the opposite was just as true.
Nash hid out in his room, with Slim for companionship, watching TV, and though Zane didn’t entirely approve of wasting hours on end in front of the tube, especially when the sun was shining, he left the kid alone. After all, the screech of electric saws and the constant pounding of hammers were driving
him
a little bat-shit crazy, and Nash wasn’t enjoying it, either.
Zane stayed outside as long as possible, working on the fence repairs he’d begun before the onslaught of home improvement, tending to Blackjack, assessing what needed to be done to bring the barn up to par.
After lunch, served buffet-style from the card table in the kitchen, right there in the midst of the wreckage, prepared and overseen by the relentlessly efficient Cleo, fence-mending lost its charm, and Zane found himself fresh out of distractions. With one horse on the whole place, the chores were minimal, and he’d done them all in fifteen minutes or so. There was firewood to cut—one of the previous occupants had left a pile of deadfall timber and scrap lumber out behind the barn—but he didn’t own an ax, let alone a chain saw.
Therefore, the obvious next move was to head for town and buy out half the local hardware store. He invited Nash to go along, but the boy was binging on old episodes of
Law and Order
and noshing on potato chips, and wasn’t inclined to move. The dog, stretched comfortably beside Nash on the unmade bed, didn’t appear to be up for a trip to the big city of Three Trees, either.
It was just as well, Zane figured, since Slim would have had to stay in the truck most of the time, so he backtracked to the kitchen, where Cleo was explaining to a man with a clipboard which floors ought to be torn out entirely and which were made of good, solid hardwood, and ought to be sanded down and varnished instead of ripped up.
“Want anything from town?” Pausing at the door, ready to make his escape, Zane queried the housekeeper casually.
“It would take too long to tell you,” Cleo answered, done explaining and now so busy scouring brochures of modern cabinets and fixtures to replace the junky ones in the bathrooms that she barely looked up.
“Right,” Zane answered, hiding his relief. Shopping for hardware was a testosterone-friendly undertaking, but Cleo might have asked for sheets and towels and the like, and he wouldn’t have had a clue about kinds or colors. He tapped his shirt pocket to indicate that he had his cell phone and used his other hand to reach for his hat and put it on. By then, clipboard man was long gone. “Call me if necessary,” he finished.
Cleo lifted her gaze from the array of tubs, toilets and vanity cabinets, a smile tugging at one side of her mouth. “And what do you consider ‘necessary,’ Zane Sutton?” she asked dryly. Of course she knew full well that there was no pressing business in Three Trees; he was bailing on all the sawing and hammering and the clouds of dust everywhere.
Zane quirked a little grin and tugged at his hat brim, just the way he had when he was leaving Ria Manning’s place that morning. “Bloodshed,” he answered. “Fire, flood, armed invasion or any earthquake above seven-point-two.”
Cleo laughed and rolled her eyes. “Get a gallon of milk while you’re out,” she said. “We’ll need it in the morning, to wet down young Nash’s usual three or four bowls of cereal.”
Zane nodded and left, before the grocery list could get any longer.
Outside, he fired up the truck and pointed the grill toward Three Trees, taking the route that led past Brylee’s headquarters, on the off chance he might catch a glimpse of her, but no luck. The place was bustling, deliveries arriving, shipments going out, but the boss lady was nowhere in sight.
Once he got to town, Zane decided he wouldn’t head straight for the hardware store, since, if he finished too quickly, he’d have no good reason to stay away from home until he was sure the construction people had called it quits for the day.
He visited the library, a trim brick building with shutters at the windows, and signed up for a card. That done, he passed over an hour browsing through the stacks, though, in the end, he didn’t check out a book.
After that, he scoped out the junior high Nash would probably attend, come fall. If Jess didn’t show up feeling all fatherly before then and take the kid with him when he inevitably left again, that is. The mere thought of their dad putting in an appearance just in time to create the usual havoc made the hinges of Zane’s jawbones ache from the strain of biting down.
He forced himself to relax. Breathe.
And he drove.
The school, like the library, was a redbrick affair, with lots of windows, skylights on the roof, well-maintained lawns. The building looked good-sized and relatively modern, and there was a separate gym on the property, along with a baseball diamond and a flagpole flying Old Glory, wind-snapping against the azure sky.
Zane made a mental note to stop in one day soon—surely, if the flag was up, there were some staffers putting in summer hours—and ask a few questions. Nash had been homeschooled, by his own admission, and while he could obviously read, that was no guarantee that he was up to speed on all the other subjects, like math and science, for instance.
No surprise that Jess had encouraged the boy to read—that, after all, would keep him occupied at least part of the time, leaving dear old Dad free to do pretty much whatever he wanted.
Zane felt another surge of resentment, took off his hat and flung it onto the passenger seat, plowed the splayed fingers of his left hand through his hair to diffuse the burst of unwanted energy.
Finally, killing time being a challenge in a place the size of Three Trees, Montana, he gave up on procrastinating and headed for the hardware store, a family-owned establishment that must have been holding its own against the big chains and the discount store, since the parking lot was fairly crowded.
While he wasn’t exactly handy with tools, Zane knew how to use a hammer and a handsaw, and as soon as he stepped inside that cluttered and somewhat dusty store, he started to feel better.
He liked the aluminum ladders of various lengths, leaning against a far wall. He liked the bright reds and greens of the lawn mowers and other landscaping equipment, the bins of nails and screws and bolts, the electric sanders and the power drills, the rows of paint cans and all the rest.
A hardware store was man-territory, he reflected, a kind of sanctuary. Not two seconds after he had that thought, he rounded a tall pyramid of motor oil and all but collided with Ria Manning. She was pushing a cart full of DIY gear: a toilet plunger, a couple of flashlights, a coil of green garden hose, a hoe and a shovel and a long-handled spade.
Clearly, the lady meant business.
“Hello, again,” she said, with a little smile.
Zane nodded. “Howdy,” he replied, with a slight grin, eyeing the stuff she’d chosen and thinking it was going to take a lot more than a little digging and watering to set things right out there on the flower farm. The house, for instance, looked like it might blow over if somebody sneezed, and the various sheds leaned at comical angles, their boards weathered to gray. On the other hand, a person had to start somewhere, and the yard and flower beds were as good a place as any. Was she depending on a paying crop?
None of his business, he promptly decided, fixing to move on and examine the chain saws and other manly man stuff he might need. “Good to see you again,” he said, reaching for the brim of his hat before he remembered he’d left it in the truck.
Ria nodded, politely disinterested now, and consulted the tattered list in her hand. Zane noticed the wedding band again, and the way her fingernails were bitten back. She must have had a story—everyone did—and he wondered what it was as he walked away.
The chain saw selection was surprisingly broad, and it took Zane a while to settle on the right one. He’d have to study the instructions later—hopefully, they were in English—to figure out how to run the thing, but he wasn’t inclined to explain to the balding, portly clerk that he’d never used that particular species of machinery before and could have used a few pointers.
After that, one thing seemed to lead to another. He’d need a couple of gas cans, wouldn’t he, and safety goggles, and heavy work gloves, too. Maybe he even needed to spring for some steel-toed boots, since sawing off a toe wasn’t part of the plan.
By the time he’d paid up at the lone cash register and loaded all his loot in the truck, twilight was coming on, and he was hungry.
His phone jangled the moment he’d climbed into the driver’s seat and stuck the key in the ignition.
Inwardly, he sighed. Most likely, Cleo had come up with a list of urgent purchases, after all, in addition to the requested gallon of milk, so he didn’t bother to check the caller ID panel before he thumbed a virtual button and said, “Let’s hear it.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Cleo?” Zane prompted.
The response was a bitter and wholly masculine laugh. “Nope,” Landry responded, and there was a certain tightness in his voice, even though he was trying to sound amiable, “it’s your brother. The good-looking one.”
Zane frowned, lingering in the lot while other cars and pickups started up around his rig, driving away. “Is everything all right?” he asked, a moment or two later.
“I guess that’s debatable,” Landry answered, his tone dry now. “My rental car turned out to be a lemon, and I’m stuck in some dive called the Boot Scoot Tavern...in—” He paused, audibly consulting someone for the name of the town he was in. “Parable,” he said. “Now, that’s quaint.”
Zane closed his eyes for a moment. Forewarned wasn’t necessarily forearmed, and since he hadn’t expected Landry to follow through and actually come to Montana, he was at a loss.
Holy crap, now what?
“Okay,” he said, and waited, still grappling with the knowledge that Landry was only thirty miles away.
“The car’s been towed,” Landry went on presently, and that was when Zane noticed that his brother was slurring his words a little. “Even if it was running, I’ve had a few beers, so—”