Finding Stefanie (16 page)

Indeed, Lincoln had a chef in the kitchen right now, a woman with dark hair who looked up and flashed Stefanie a smile.

She managed one back.

“The house is actually a kit,” Lincoln said. “They truck in the pieces, and it’s like putting together giant LEGOs. Just follow the instructions.”

Oh yeah, just like LEGOs. “But you had to have an army of people here to accomplish this.”

Lincoln shrugged. “I wanted a place to get away, and this was the time to do it. Now that I’m here, I’m thinking of selling my place in California.”

He was thinking of selling his house?

“It’s not completely done yet, though. I still have to finish the library, and there’s no furniture in the upstairs bedrooms, except the master. I focused on the essential areas and my office. I hope to finish it all soon. Would you like something to drink?” He raised his glass. “Diet Coke. I’m an addict.”

Stefanie shook her head. “Water, later, will be fine.”

Whoever had designed the place had expertly mixed the Old West with new styles—wrought iron and leather furniture, paintings by Montana painter C. M. Russell, nubby llama wool blankets draped over furniture, mica-paper light fixtures. . . . With everything inside her, Stefanie wanted to plop into one of his overstuffed chairs and bury herself in a book. “Who did your interior design?” she asked.

Lincoln took a sip of his Diet Coke. “Me.”

Stefanie tried not to let surprise show on her face. Honestly, she would have expected to see his movie posters, maybe memorabilia from his various action movies, gaudy black leather, and leopard prints on the floor. Instead the place was styled with elegance, with an eye toward fitting into the Montana landscape. Who was this man? “Beautiful” was all she could say.

“We have some time before dinner. Let me show you the rest of the house.”

She followed him through the kitchen to a formal dining room, complete with a hand-carved table made of more of the dark wood, and into another room that made her smile. “I’ve never seen a personal movie theater in a house.”

Lincoln flicked on the lights. “It’s a media room. Lots of houses have them nowadays. Mine only holds nine people, so it’s small.”

It didn’t look small. A huge screen, bracketed by black curtains, took up one entire wall. The room sloped down, like one of the theaters in Sheridan, only this room had three rows of plush black leather recliners—she’d known she’d find it somewhere—complete with cup holders and little tables that she guessed would hold more than popcorn. “So this is where you watch your massive collection of Lincoln Cash movies?”

He gave her a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t suppose you want to see the electronics for this room?”

“Did you design them?”

The slightest hue of red in his face indicated that yes, he’d probably put the entire thing together. She didn’t know why she was surprised.

“Where do you keep your movie collection?”

He gestured to a door—which seemed right, because a man like him would probably have every movie ever made—but when she opened it, she found a shallow closet with just two rows of DVDs.

DVDs of Lincoln Cash movies. And every one of them still in the package.

She picked one up. “They’re not opened. I suppose you don’t need to watch them to know what they’re about.”

Disinterest showed on his face. “I don’t watch my movies.”

Her smile vanished. “What?”

Lincoln took the movie from her hand and slid it back on the shelf. “There’s more house.”

He pointed out the view from the back deck, showed her how to use the remote control for the outside lights that lined the driveway, how to run the ceiling fans, and how to control the music piped through the house.

Through it all, she kept hearing,
“I don’t watch my movies.”

Why not? Even she knew that making a movie was hard work—she had listened to John Kincaid’s stories of watching his book
Unshackled
being made into a movie. Why wouldn’t Lincoln want to enjoy his efforts?

He finally led her back to the foyer and a room leading off from it. “This is my office.”

Stefanie found herself drawn into this little room with the mocha-colored walls, various Stetsons hanging behind the desk, the wall of books—she noted that he had Louis L’Amour’s entire leather-bound collection—and the pictures on his dark wooden credenza. A laptop was closed on top of the desk. Yet, not one movie poster, not even a wallet-size celebrity vanity picture.

And if he were to have them, they’d be here.

She walked over to the collection of photos on the credenza behind his desk. She recognized Lincoln and Dex Graves, the director of
Unshackled
, in what looked like a shot taken on this land, perhaps in this very place. “This was when you were working on the movie last summer, wasn’t it?”

He nodded, and for a second, she was again sitting next to him on the bleachers at the Fourth of July rodeo, listening to him tell stories of life on the set. She’d thought, even then, that he had a magic about him. And that magic showed in every photo—the one of John and Lincoln in costume, and in another, of a young woman with a wide smile and unfocused eyes. Stefanie picked it up. “Old girlfriend?”

Lincoln took it from her. “No.” He touched her elbow, steering her out of the office. “Karen made some artichoke dip for an appetizer. I promise, you’ll love it. She’s a great cook.”

Stefanie had the definite impression that she’d asked the wrong question. “Did I offend you?”

“Nope.” He walked into the kitchen. “We’ll be on the deck,” he said to Karen.

Wasn’t it freezing out there? Although it was mid-May, Montana’s nights still required a jacket or sweater. But Lincoln grabbed neither as he opened the French doors. “Join me?”

Stefanie gave him a dubious look, then stepped outside.

The warmth hit her like a summer night. Even though the deck overlooked a vast ocean of crisp darkness, the eating area—a deliciously set table for two—seemed to be in its own pocket of warmth. As Lincoln pulled out her chair, Stefanie saw why. Four outside heaters that looked like trees blew heat toward the dining area. July, in his backyard.

“This is incredible.”

He smiled. “Welcome to my housewarming party.”

Karen came out and set a chafing dish of bubbling dip between them, then a basket of tortilla chips.

“Thank you, Karen,” Lincoln said.

Stefanie saw by her smile that she, too, had been infected by the Lincoln Cash charm. But, really, how could Stefanie blame her? It would be nearly impossible to be around all this 24-7 without letting it test your resolve. Except, of course, for a girl like Stefanie.

She took a chip and dipped it into the gooey cheese. “I see I’m the only one at your party.”

Lincoln sat back in his chair. “I’m just getting to know my neighbors.”

She crunched her chip, savoring the perfectly blended flavors. She’d have to get the recipe for Piper. “That’s not what I see. I think there’s a petition in town to make you our first mayor and rename Main Street after you.”

He laughed at her jest, but she could see the thought pleased him. As if he had any doubts?

“Would you sign the petition?”

She shrugged, reaching for another chip. “Depends on the other candidates. Besides, you don’t need my vote.”

“Yours is the only one I care about.”

The chip got caught in her throat. She coughed and reached for a glass of water, drinking it down.

Lincoln sat there, grinning.

Not quite, mister.
She wasn’t the same stupid, starstruck girl she’d been in college, dating the campus hotshot. And she wouldn’t let Lincoln into her heart to wreak the same damage.

But despite her words, she couldn’t help feeling that, given the chance, she’d vote for him sticking around Phillips. . . . After all, he made a very good neighbor.

Stefanie Noble had the power to leave Lincoln’s head spinning, throwing fuel on the fire he’d been trying to bank for a week, ever since they’d brought home his new herd. It wasn’t easy to be around her every day, or rather, it wasn’t easy to be around her and not want to touch that silky dark hair, maybe take her in his arms and kiss those lips that seemed to have an opinion about everything.

He’d never dated such a bossy, strong woman. Most of the women he knew not only asked how high when he suggested “jump” but did their homework to know his favorite food and perfume and wasted no time in telling him how lucky they were to be with him.

Except, he wasn’t exactly dating Stefanie. And she kept him at bullwhip distance, doing nothing to impress him, not once sidling up to him to ask for his help, not once giving him a look that suggested her mind lingered on anything but teaching him how to groom and rein-train his horses.

Until tonight.

Until she’d worn a little black dress. It wasn’t even a low-cut, thigh-high, barely there kind of dress. It was simple, with a wide neck, and draping to her knees. On any other woman it might have been unnoticeable. But with all that dark hair down and blowing slightly in the breeze, those equally dark eyes, and a slight blush on her face—residue from the way she’d reacted to his flirting—he’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

He needed to keep his wits about him and keep in mind that he was trying to be her kind of man.

Although, frankly, he was having a hard time figuring out what that might be. Because the man who had concocted this evening wasn’t the same guy who endured the smell of manure, who spent hours getting greasy horsehair on him. Yet it was only as that man that he’d gotten a reaction from her.

“You’re doing a great job with the horses,” Stefanie said now as she scooped into the artichoke dip.

“I have to admit they do have a certain elegance despite their brokenness,” he said, standing at the grill, his back to her, cooking steaks and foil-wrapped asparagus.

“Mmm,” she said. “Reminds me, in a way, of Gideon. All he needed was a chance.”

Lincoln didn’t turn for fear the truth might be written all over his face. The fear that his second chance might be too late.

He’d woken this morning with that pins-and-needles stinging sensation, this time in his right leg. He’d been trying all day not to panic, but it wasn’t easy to hide his returning limp. Or the fact that earlier tonight, for no reason at all, the room had tilted and he’d found himself facedown on his bedroom carpet.

He hadn’t dodged the MS bullet after all. It had resurfaced just in time to mock him. Especially when it took him nearly thirty minutes to button his shirt, and by that time, he’d worked up such a sweat that he’d had to change it. He chose a pullover the second time around. Which meant he had to change into jeans.

And she’d shown up in a dress. He felt like a jerk.

But he wasn’t about to cancel dinner.

“I love what you’ve done to the Big K,” Stefanie said, sitting back in her chair at the table. She’d finally decided on raspberry iced tea and sipped it from a tall crystal-cut glass.

“Thanks. I had my eye on it ever since last summer.”

“When does
Unshackled
come out?”

“The premiere is in late June. It’s supposed to be a Fourth of July movie, something that touches the heart of freedom and the Old West. I think it’s the token Western for the summer.”

She turned her glass in her hand, staring at it, and he suddenly had an image of her in a long silky dress, her hair piled up with tendrils spilling over her shoulders, her arm tucked through his as they climbed out of the limousine at the premiere.

No. That life was over. He needed to get that reality through his hard head.

He turned back to the steaks. “So, how’s Rafe?” He’d been following this year’s exploits of her bull-riding brother and knew he was high in the standings for the GetRowdy bull riders, if not first.

“He finally proposed to Kat.”

Something thick filled Lincoln’s throat; he might even name it jealousy. Unlike his own so-called torrid romances, Rafe and Kat had the real deal going on.

He scooped the meat onto a serving platter, then grabbed the tinfoil and slid it onto the plate. He touched his mouth to soothe the burning as he brought the plate to the table. “You probably have steak all the time—”

“No, actually, we’re more of a spaghetti family.” Stefanie held up her plate while he forked a steak onto it. “So this is a treat.”

He sat and served himself and was just about to lift his Diet Coke in a toast when she smiled at him and said, “Can we pray?”

Pray?
“Of course,” he said, but he kept his eyes open, watching her as she bowed her head and prayed out loud.

He might be in real trouble. Apparently, to be Stefanie Noble’s type, he’d also have to return to the little white church. He fabricated a smile and a heartfelt “Amen,” but everything inside him had started to churn.

“How are the kids?” The question came out so . . . so domestic and homey that he couldn’t help but make a face. “I didn’t quite mean that the way it sounded.”

Stefanie wore another cute blush but kept her head down, cutting her meat. “They’re fine. Macey is almost as good with a horse as you are.”

“I’m sure she could teach me a few things.”