The Princess of Coldwater Flats

by Nancy Bush

  Gazing out the open hayloft door, she focused on the dots of cattle and horses in the field. As if of their own volition, her eyes turned toward Cooper’s property. Someone was standing by the fence about a quarter of a mile off. Cooper?

  Sammy Jo aimed an imaginary rifle, pulled the trigger and blew him away. “Take that.”

  Immediately, she felt like an idiot. What was wrong with her? So he’d been crude and superior and completely wrong. No reason to act like a child. She was going to marry Brent and she didn’t give a rat’s ass what Cooper Ryan or the rest of Coldwater Flats thought about it.

  You’re the biggest liar. And you do most of your lying to yourself.

  Through her anger, Sammy Jo could still feel the stab of that remark. It hadn’t been as pointed as some of his other comments, but it had been the one that hit vital tissue. She knew he meant she was lying about Brent in particular.

  Uneasy, she returned to yanking hay bales around until exhaustion forced her back to the house. After pouring a glass of lemonade down her parched throat, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then gazed at the living room telephone. She’d avoided Brent since their date. She’d avoided everyone.

  Wrinkling her nose, she placed the call she’d been dreading for days.

  “Rollins Real Estate,” Brent’s sister, Connie, answered.

  “Hi, this is Sammy Jo. Is Brent around?”

  “Oh, hi, Sammy Jo. He’s showing the Pendleton house to some couple from California.”

  “Think I can barge in?”

  Sammy Jo could hear her chew on her pencil. “Gee, I don’t know.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll wait for his call.” She hung up, her hands staying on the receiver for long seconds afterward. It had been three days since her fight with Cooper. She touched her lips experimentally. Three days since he’d last kissed her.

  Snorting, she flung herself onto the couch. Kissed her? Kissed her? Hah! He’d done a lot more than just press his lips to hers. He’d made one pretty heavy-duty pass, baby. Really heavy-duty.

  …‌you do most of your lying to yourself…‌.

  Covering her face with her hands, Sammy Jo groaned in anguish. He was right. Instead of kicking him where it counted, she’d practically tumbled to the ground and begged him to take her right then and there.

  And, why? Why? Sammy Jo shook her head in consternation. Over and over again in the past, she’d ripped guys verbally up one side and down the other as soon as they made the slightest remark about her feminine attributes. She’d stopped them cold with drop-dead stares and “make my day” body language. And she’d kicked butt a few times, too, although that was mainly when she’d been horsing around.

  Why had she reacted so differently to Cooper? Why had she wanted him? Why did she still want him?

  Sammy Jo groaned again and closed her eyes. “Holy moley,” she muttered through her teeth.

  The phone rang and she jumped, staring at the receiver as if it might suddenly sprout fangs. Gingerly she picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Sammy Jo, honey, I heard you called,” Brent said, his voice thick with relief. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. We’ve got to get you a cell phone.”

  “I’ve really been busy. And I’ve got this thing with my throat, too.” Sammy Jo manufactured a cough, gooseflesh rising on her arms as she once again recalled Cooper’s accusations about her lies.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.

  “Fine. I just needed some time…‌to recover.”

  “Good, well, are you busy tonight? I’d like to show you some things.”

  “What kind of things?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Some documents I had drawn up. Nothing big.”

  “A prenup agreement?” Sammy Jo was faintly amused.

  “Oh, no! What’s mine is yours. It’s just a way for us to seal our plans in a meaningful way.”

  Sammy Jo was uncertain she liked the sound of that. Sighing, she said, “Why don’t you come for dinner? We’ll have corn on the cob, chicken salad and lemonade.”

  “I’ll bring a bottle of champagne,” he agreed happily and rang off.

  Vaguely disquieted, Sammy Jo wandered back to the kitchen. Could she marry Brent? Really? Could she?

  Of course she could.

  Slopping together a tuna and sweet pickle sandwich with more speed than style, Sammy Jo munched noisily and stared out the window. It was high noon, hot as a pistol, the sky more white than blue. Far off she could see the dark gathering of thunderclouds. Good, she thought. She could use a good storm. For some reason, she felt as if she were going to explode.

  * * *

  Brent showed up at six and by then Sammy Jo had managed to shower, wash her hair, change into a pair of shorts and sandals and look marginally presentable. They ate at the kitchen table, making companionable small talk. Brent neglected to uncork the champagne until the meal was nearly over, even though Sammy Jo tried to serve it earlier.

  “Wait,” he’d said, taking the bottle from her. Now, he unwound the protective wire, smiling at Sammy Jo as he did so. He poured them each a glass—in coffee mugs, as Sammy Jo wasn’t loaded down with expensive crystal. “Cheers!” Brent said, clinking his mug to hers.

  “So, where is the legal-eagle stuff you were talking about?” Sammy Jo asked.

  “Well…” Brent went to his coat and pulled out several sheafs of paper, looking slightly sheepish as he brought them over to the table.

  “What?” Sammy Jo asked, her gaze riveted.

  “I just thought we’d make things official, before we tell everyone.”

  Whatever it was, Brent had printed it on Rollins Real Estate letterhead. Sammy just skimmed the text, a line forming between her eyebrows. “I don’t get it.”

  He shrugged lightly. “It’s mainly for fun.”

  Fun? Good grief, if this was Brent’s idea of fun, she’d better run for the hills. According to this “contract,” he wanted her to affix her John Henry to a paper that would guarantee that she would absolutely, definitely, indisputably marry him, no matter what. Brent was obviously covering his bases. Did he believe she would humiliate him by backing out at the last minute? She had to admit it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

  “Do you want this signed in blood?” Sammy Jo suggested.

  He laughed, coloring slightly. At least he had the decency to be embarrassed. “I don’t mean to make you feel…”

  “Strangled?”

  He shook his head.

  Sammy just stared down at the document. The language was light and airy, as if the whole thing were a joke, but she knew there was an undercurrent of desperation here. Brent seemed to feel that if he tied her up with some hocus-pocus legal–looking document that bore her signature, Sammy Jo Whalen wouldn’t get cold feet.

  I’ve got news for you, buddy. I’ve already got ‘em.

  Her reaction to Cooper had been proof of that.

  The memory of Cooper and the way he’d pinned her against the tree, kissing her, touching her, making all reason flee…‌that’s what finally did it. She quickly scratched her name to the bottom of the document.

  “You won’t be sorry,” Brent said on a pent-up sigh of relief at the same moment thunder rumbled ominously somewhere to the north.

  A bright flash of lightning spider-webbed downward, illuminating the sky like fireworks. Cooper stared out his back door. No rain. No moisture. No culmination. Just dry heat and frustration.

  Cooper drank lustily from his long-necked bottle of beer. Another burst of lightning, white and blinding, was followed by an instant growl of thunder.

  “Damn close,” Cooper muttered, surprised. The storm was moving rapidly, black clouds boiling across the dark blue sky.

  Jack and Lettie were out. Cooper had practically needed a crowbar to pry them from the ranch house. Apart from the fact that they both deserved time away, he wanted to be truly alone. Their living situation was fast becoming uncomfortable. He couldn’t handle cohabitat
ing with people, no matter how nice they were. He wanted his own space without the fear that someone would inadvertently invade it.

  He was going to have to ask them to move out, and it made him feel like Simon Legree.

  He grimaced. Remorse seemed to have made a permanent home inside his chest. What a terrible emotion. Made people recognize their own faults.

  Cooper shook his head, clamping his jaw. He’d been hard on Sammy Jo. Cruel, really. He’d wanted to hurt her, which amazed him because he couldn’t remember ever wanting to hurt anyone.

  He’d wanted to force her to realize she couldn’t marry Brent. He’d wanted to give her something to think about. He’d wanted to—hell. He’d wanted to make love to her and damn the consequences.

  “Get hold of yourself,” he admonished, tossing back the rest of his beer and slamming the empty bottle on the rail. A jab of lightning burst in front of his eyes. Thunder blasted, vibrating through him.

  The air smelled of ozone, and the hair on his arms lifted with electricity. Cooper closed his eyes and swallowed. He saw Sammy Jo’s face, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the quirk of her smile even while she acted like a shrew. And it was an act, Cooper conceded, realizing her very demeanor was part of the attraction. This was no woman trying to win his favors. Hell, no. She’d just as soon spit on him as talk to him.

  He thought of her neck, the soft sheen of her skin, the curve of her breasts. It was enough to make him go hard on the spot.

  The whole sky brightened; lightning jabbed somewhere to his left, toward the Triple R. Sammy Jo, Sammy Jo, Sammy Jo. With a growl of frustration, he pushed his fingers through his hair, wishing something, anything, would get her out of his mind.

  A moment later, hot acrid smoke filled his nostrils. Fire! At a dead run he circled the house and saw an angry orange blaze throbbing past his screen of aspens and pines. Not Sammy Jo’s house, he realized, his heart rate slowing a few beats. But something else on her property.

  Slamming his hat on his head, he jumped into the truck and bounced up the lane so hard he could feel his tailbone thunk all the way up to his neck. But he had to hurry. He kept one eye turned to that ominous fiery glow.

  Lightning fire. Given the dryness of the grass, it could spread real fast. Too fast.

  Sammy Jo sniffed the air. Smoke?

  She was alone on the back porch, arms surrounding her chest, glad that Brent had gone home after an awkward kiss goodbye, telling herself over and over again that his silly pact was nothing to worry about. She was free to do as she liked. She was marrying him because she had to—to save the ranch. And because he loved her and given time, she could love him, too.

  Liar her conscience wouldn’t let up. Angry, Sammy Jo had headed outside to watch the storm at closer range. She loved storms, but it was an experience she generally enjoyed alone. If Brent were still here, she didn’t know what she’d do.

  Now, her skin prickled at the dense air. She glanced around anxiously. The lightning storm was a real doozy. Thunder rumbled, sounding like an underground train. Smoke drifted toward her again, and she ran off the porch onto the dry ground.

  A lightning fire? Where?

  Her gaze flitted over the grounds: the barn, the paddocks, the fields beyond. Striding hurriedly to the front of the house, she gasped at the black funnel of smoke billowing from somewhere up the lane.

  What was it? What had caught fire?

  The oak tree!

  “No!” Sammy Jo ran for the pickup, jerking hard three times on the door, swearing and kicking and still the damn thing wouldn’t budge. Panicked, she whirled around, watching that distant haze of red.

  The fire department. She needed them.

  She ran for the house, yanking open the screen door, sliding on dust-oiled boots across the smooth wooden floor, catching the receiver on the fly.

  “Hello? Hello?” she cried as soon as she heard the connection completed. “This is Sammy Jo Whalen. We’ve got a fire here!”

  “Sammy Jo? It’s Tommy.”

  Tommy Weatherwood. Sammy Jo didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “My oak tree’s on fire. Up the lane. What the hell are you doing answering the phones?”

  “Need all the volunteers we can. We got a real problem around here, Sammy Jo. Couple of barns aflame. Some houses. It’s one helluva mess.”

  Sammy Jo blinked. “Where are the fire trucks?” Coldwater Flats had a volunteer fire department. She knew the whole town only possessed a couple of trucks.

  “Out doin’ what they gotta do. Is the tree close to the house?”

  She could hear more lines ringing, could almost feel the panic of those unseen callers. “No, it’s the one in the lane.”

  “Then we’ll get to ya when we can. Call back if it starts gobblin’ up your property. Need an ambulance?” he asked as an afterthought.

  “No. Thanks, Tommy.”

  She hung up, distracted, scared, feeling seconds count. A fist banged on her door, pounding so loudly she jumped a foot and stifled a scream.

  “Sammy Jo?” Cooper Ryan’s voice demanded.

  “Cooper!”

  Her relief nearly blinded her as she ran to the front door.

  “Call the fire department. The oak tree’s on fire,” he reported tersely.

  “I called. They’ll get to us when they can.”

  Her voice nearly broke. He heard. Reaching out, he pulled her close. She listened to the strong beat of his heart.

  “Any way to pump water out there?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not fast enough.”

  “Maybe it’ll burn itself out without catching anything else on fire.”

  She hurt inside. How could she explain her feelings about that tree? It was the symbol of everything she cared about. But if she cried, she would sound hysterical, and above all else, she couldn’t be hysterical now.

  “We need shovels. Tarps. Barrels of water.” He pushed her back gently and looked in her eyes. “Can you find those things?”

  “I’ve got some empty barrels in the garage. You get the water. I’ll find the shovels and tarp.”

  “Good girl.”

  A calm settled over Sammy Jo. There was nothing she could do but help Cooper try to contain the fire. She found the tools and tarp and tossed them in the back of his truck. She could feel flashes of heat from the inferno.

  Cooper hauled two barrels of water into the back of the truck, and then they were heading for the fire. Rounding the bend, Sammy Jo’s mouth opened in horror. The oak tree was split in two, limbs surrounded by dancing orange and yellow and black flames, liquid, gleeful and twisting.

  Sammy Jo jumped out before the truck came to a stop. She ran forward, blasted by heat, lungs burning for air, thighs shaking. Smoke and the smell of bubbling sap filled her nostrils.

  “My God!” Cooper expelled, dragging her back a foot or two.

  The fire raged all around the tree, engulfing it, searing the wood to black. An ominous cracking sounded, reverberating over the angry roar of the flames. In a furious blaze, a limb crashed to the ground, scarlet and gold sparks spiraling into the black sky. Smoke fanned out like beckoning hands, inviting one and all to enjoy the spectacle.

  Sammy Jo’s eyes burned. Her friend. Her oldest friend.

  “Get back,” Cooper urged.

  In sudden fury, she shook off his hands. Momentarily disoriented, she stumbled, choking on a sob. Cooper grabbed her again and pulled her to the truck. He held her for a moment until the fight went out of her. Then, systematically, he hauled out the water barrels from the back, rolling them on the ground. Darting tongues of flame fell like rain all around him. Opening a barrel, he poured a stream of water on the hot, licking tendrils, deadly offspring of the mother fire. The ground hissed.

  Sammy Jo grabbed the tarp. She smothered other fiery upstarts. Tears fought for release, but she clamped her jaw and fought them back.

  She and Cooper worked in silence. All they could do was destroy the fire’s attempts at escape. But it was tortu
re to watch the tree burn on and on, a ghastly funeral pyre.

  Cooper shoveled a trench, muscles gleaming with blackened sweat as he fought to keep the fire from spreading in the direction of the Triple R. His shirt was streaked with dirt and smoke. The effort seemed futile to Sammy Jo. She stood by limply, hurting all over. Then, realizing she was being useless, she grabbed a shovel and joined him.

  They threw hard, sunbaked dirt over their shoulders and beat at escaping flames. Sammy Jo swore and raged and kept working, furious at the fates, at everything.

  “The wind!” Cooper yelled.

  She’d felt it. A cool breeze against her arms. But she’d thought it was borne of the fire. Looking up, she saw the flames slash eastward, flung by the wind that had erupted in the wake of the storm.

  “Where’s the rain?” she screeched. “Where’s the goddamn rain?”

  Sirens blared faintly, far away. Was it her imagination? She listened hard, straining. No, she wasn’t imagining it. They were coming. They were coming!

  The fire truck arrived in a wail of sirens and spiraling flashes of red and white lights. Tommy Weatherwood jumped down and barked orders to two other men Sammy Jo didn’t recognize. Cooper grabbed one of the snaking hoses without being asked.

  The team poured a stream of water on the oak tree. Water sprayed and sparkled, hissing and sputtering as it slapped against the flaming oak.

  Sammy Jo stood back, hot and aching. It was over in a matter of minutes, water pumped from the tanks aboard the truck.

  But it didn’t matter. Soon the tree was a charred, miserable creature, broken in two, puffing up clouds of steam.

  “You okay?” Tommy asked her, wiping his forehead. A splash of white cut his blackened face as he smiled at her.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Sammy Jo managed to say.

  “Heard you’re marryin’ Brent. If you change your mind, come on down to Shady Glen and look me up.”

  He jumped back on the truck, barking to his fellow volunteers. Sammy Jo was too tired to scream. But that’s exactly what she wanted to do. She wanted to yell at him for his insensitivity, his lack of caring. It was all an adventure to Tommy.