Black Hills Native Son: a Hollywood-meets-the-real-wild-west contemporary romance series (Black Hills Rendezvous Book 5)

by Debra Salonen

  Jack’s fiancée, Kat Petroski, had one of Miller’s rustic birdhouses on her deck. Made entirely of scraps of wood, moss, bark, pebbles and other objects found in nature, the compact, whimsical piece spoke to Rachel in a way she didn’t quite understand.

  Rachel had yet to meet the man behind the birdhouses, but she definitely wanted him as a client. If what Kat said was true, Rufus Miller’s birdhouses were the mere tip of the iceberg where his talent was concerned.

  All she had to do was wrangle an invitation to meet the shy recluse. Oh…and buy a four-wheel-drive vehicle to get up the mountain to reach his remote cabin. His one-of-a-kind art wouldn’t make either of them rich, but she didn’t care. Rich wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be—not when it came with a huge emotional price tag.

  After opening the flaps of the first box, she dug through a sea of packing peanuts to withdraw a five-inch, banana-shaped hunk of newsprint. She unwrapped the figurine with care.

  “Nice,” she exclaimed, palming a raku-fired ceramic Wise Man.

  She let the packaging material drop to the floor as she examined the piece. Dark, earthy colors with a copper hue that added a hint of exotic. She set it on the glass display shelf to her right then eagerly dug into the box to find the rest of the crèche. Each figure was another masterpiece.

  She was so engrossed in her mission of discovery she nearly missed the ding-dong sound announcing the arrival of a customer. “I’ll be right with you,” she hollered.

  Muttering under her breath, she glanced at the grouping of holy figurines and shook her head. “Mary? Joseph? Where’s your Baby?”

  Bending over, she pawed elbow-deep through the packing peanuts until her fingers closed around something small and solid. “Gotcha,” she cried.

  She stood, lifting her arm overhead triumphantly. Her hold on the holy infant faltered the instant she realized her customer was a towering monolith of a man with a bushy mop of a beard that seemed to start an inch or so below his fiercely black eyes. His wild, unruly hair—a color of brown dark enough to be called black—seemed to possess a life of its own, except in the places where his hat had tamed it. A fleece-lined red plaid hat with ear-flaps that he held crushed to the chest of his hazardous-waste-material orange plaid jacket. His leather gloves were probably fourteen sizes larger than the pair in her purse.

  Rachel lowered her hand until it was level with her face. “I found Jesus.”

  A man who could pass for Big Foot in plaid might be common in Sentinel Pass, but the city-girl part of her brain was releasing boatloads of adrenaline along with the sage advice: run. Her toes gripped the insides of her boots. Her knees quivered. But her legs didn’t move. Not even when the colorful giant threw back his head and started to laugh.

  A name flashed into her head: Rufus Miller. She didn’t know why. No one had described him as lumbering and hirsute.

  Her white-knuckle grip on the beatifically smiling infant lessened. “Um…uh…hi. My name is Rachel Grey. You wouldn’t by any chance be Rufus Miller, would you?”

  It took Rufus a minute to get his laughter under control. He didn’t have cause to laugh very often, but the expression on this pretty young woman’s face—part triumph, part terror—seemed a fitting culmination of the changes that taken place in his world over the past few months. His days of peaceful obscurity were over. He needed to make a living again.

  Again being the operative word. He’d socked away plenty of money at the time of his premature retirement. Unfortunately, the economy of the world-at-large, and a greedy investment counselor, had changed things. He and his dogs wouldn’t starve any time soon, but he couldn’t keep funding the cause nearest and dearest to his heart if he didn’t start bringing in some cash. Sooner, rather than later.

  He ignored the woman’s question. He’d seen that “Hey, I recognize you” look a thousand times if not more. “Aren’t you the model from the Calvin Klein ad?” women would ask, touching his arm, his lapel, even his derriere, as if seeing his bare skin in print gave them some kind of ownership.

  “Is Char here?”

  He didn’t know the owner of Native Arts well, but she was a friend of Kat’s, and Char’s distinctive hair color, which seemed to change on a whim, made her pretty hard to miss. He appreciated individualism. The woman in front of him was a bit too chic—despite the scruffy boots—to qualify as different.

  What did she say her name was? Rachel Grey? Why did that sound familiar?

  “No. Char’s gone today. I’m working for her. Crafting some holiday displays.” She waggled the ceramic piece she’d been holding like an atomizer of Mace.

  Rufus glanced around. She’d either just started or she was really bad at her job.

  As if hearing his critique, she quickly disposed of the small figurine and stepped around the mountain of packing material. “You are Rufus, aren’t you? I emailed you, but Char said you’re somewhat hit-and-miss with the Internet.”

  She held out her hand. “I was hoping to talk to you about revamping your online presence. To up your sales.”

  It took him a moment to get his head—his ego—back in the present. This wasn’t about R.J. Milne, semi-naked underwear model. The man he’d been in another life. This was about his current persona. Rufus Miller, backwoods outcast-turned-businessman.

  “Um…”

  “Your pre-holiday sales,” she added. “Something we’d have to jump on right away so you can get the most bang for your buck.” She cringed and quickly apologized. “Forgive the cliché, but I didn’t have time to think about my presentation beyond the rough draft stage. Of course, I could and will give you a more complete analysis of your marketing needs after we’ve talked.”

  His palms started to sweat and his throat shrunk to a pinhole. What she was suggesting had already crossed his mind. In fact, he’d decided that morning to invest in a Web site and try to take his sales to the next level.

  In theory.

  He’d known that would mean inviting the outside world back into his life. He simply hadn’t expected the outside world to arrive as a tsunami surfed by a beautiful stranger. A woman who…. “Wait. Your name is Rachel?”

  She blinked her long, pretty eyelashes. “Yes.”

  “Kat’s Rachel?”

  Her smile looked relieved. “Yes. Kat is marrying my brother, Jack. You’re coming to the wedding, aren’t you? I saw your name on the guest list. I could have waited to approach you then with my sales pitch, but since the wedding is four days after Christmas, I figured that wouldn’t do either of us any good, would it?”

  He shook his head, aware of her quick survey. He gave her credit for not appearing too repelled. He’d cultivated this disguise for a reason—it kept people at arm’s length. It didn’t seem to work with her.

  “You are coming, right? I don’t remember seeing your RSVP.”

  He liked Kat. She’d been the first to see the potential in his hobby and had encouraged him to sell his birdhouses on craigslist and eBay. She was the perfect kind of friend for someone like him—too busy with her own life to be all that interested in his. But he had no intention of attending a wedding. God, no.

  “Kat told me Char might sell some of my birdhouses. On consignment.”

  She used the side of her finger to rub the tip of her nose. A stalling tactic, he realized. “I’m sure she would and I would be happy to give her cell phone a try, but she said something about hiking Bear Butte. I don’t know if she’ll have reception there. Would you like to wait?”

  Damn. The physical drive into town wasn’t that big a deal, but getting past the mental hurdle he’d slowly acquired from his self-imposed isolation was more difficult. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Great work ethic. That’s good to know. Did you bring any of your birdhouses with you? I would be happy to take care of them until you can connect with Char.”

  He had a truck full of his latest creations, but he had no intention of handing them over to a stranger. Especially a stranger who wanted so
mething from him. His social instincts were rusty, but he sensed she had some kind of agenda that that went beyond wanting to pitch a marketing plan.

  “I’ll leave one. If she wants more, I’ll check back next week.”

  He could tell that idea didn’t sit well with Rachel Grey. Her lips, as shapely and shiny as any model he’d ever worked with, pressed together primly. The gesture reminded him of his mother, although Mom had hardly ever scolded him or his brother. Mom had been the easy-going type, happy and very tough to rile up—until the accident. Happy hadn’t been part of their family dynamic after that.

  “May I see them?”

  The clenching feeling in his belly increased. Selling anonymously over the Internet was one thing. Having your questionable attempt at art critiqued, mano-a-mano, was quite another. But what choice did he have?

  “They’re in my truck.”

  She quickly tidied up her work area so the box wasn’t blocking the aisle and the fragile ceramic pieces were out of harm’s way then turned to follow him.

  “It’s cold. Don’t you want a coat?”

  She made a scoffing sound. “I won’t freeze.”

  He didn’t argue. He got the feeling she did what she wanted despite what anyone else thought. He admired that in a person. Independence was his one claim to fame. Or had been at one time in his life.

  His dogs, all smushed together on the passenger seat of his two-door truck, greeted him as if he’d been gone several days, not minutes. Three vociferous mutts he’d slowly acquired over the years. Only Chumley, the nine-year old arthritic black Lab, had been an intentional acquisition. Fred and Rat-girl had joined his canine family by accident and circumstance, respectively.

  “Hush.”

  Fred—the half pit, half who-knew-what?—let out a whimper clearly audible through the glass. Fred hated to be scolded. Not surprising, really. The poor animal had shown up two years earlier, limping from what looked like shotgun pellets in his rump. His name had been embroidered on the corner of the tattered scarf tied around his neck. Someone had loved him once, but that someone had let him go—or tried to kill him. Rufus never bothered to look for his previous owner.

  Rat—the only female of the bunch—had arrived in the middle of the night last summer during a torrential downpour. Shivering and exhausted, she’d literally dropped at his feet, her longish, golden red coat plastered to her bulging sides like a drowned rat. She’d given birth an hour later to three tiny souls, all not breathing. Rufus’s heart had ached watching her lick each one clean and gently nuzzle them, trying to coax them to life. He and the other two dogs had buried the little bodies the next morning up on the ridge above his house.

  Oddly, that was where he’d found the inspiration behind his newest rendition of his hobby. A part-time pastime he was hoping to turn into a paying enterprise.

  He didn’t know how or why the idea entered his mind, but once he started puttering with the twigs and moss and bark and weathered branches he’d discovered around the burial site, his imagination had shifted into high gear and he’d found himself remembering a time in his life when art had had meaning and importance.

  Seventh grade. The last time he let himself tap into that untapped talent.

  “These are different,” he warned her, opening the tailgate of his vintage diesel truck. He liked its beat-up, rusted exterior, but beneath the hood was a perfectly tuned engine. His mechanic in Sturgis made sure of it.

  “Kat and her friend, Jenna, called my first ones suggestive. Never saw it myself, but I quit makin’ them. Didn’t like the emails I was getting.”

  He crammed his hat back on his head, letting the flaps hang loose by his jaw.

  There were twisted people in the world. He knew. He’d been one. And he wanted no part of that now.

  “I call these Dreamhouses.”

  He reached for the closest one. A two-story model. “Every bit of it except the nails and glue comes from the woods around my place.”

  He pointed to the chimney. “I left it open so you can write down your wish on a piece of paper, fold it up real small, and drop it down into a sealed compartment on the inside. Whatever you write is a secret. Just between you and your god, or…whatever.”

  Embarrassed and slightly out of breath, he looked at his hands to avoid seeing her expression.

  “O.M.G., as they say. Fabulous idea. I love it. I can do a lot with the name, marketing-wise. May I?”

  She snatched it out his hands without asking. When he started to protest, he saw her face and instantly recognized an intensity that went beyond appreciating his work.

  “This is amazing, Rufus. May I call you that?” She turned the piece all around, taking in the detail.

  A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold whipped down his back. In a way, it felt as though she was touching him. Intimately.

  She barely glanced his way to see his nod. “I absolutely love it. I’d buy it in a heartbeat, if I had a porch of my own.” She gave it back to him and lifted her chin to look him in the eyes.

  “Let me lay my cards on the table, as they say. At the moment, I’m homeless and between jobs.” Her pause told him she hadn’t really put her situation into words that blunt before. “I was a corporate bean counter in Denver for the past six years. My situation has changed. My brother is helping me move. I’ll be staying in Libby Lindstrom’s guest house until I can find a more permanent place. If everything works out.”

  He didn’t need details. Everyone knew Libby McGannon married a Hollywood actor who brought fame and money to the little town of Sentinel Pass. Rufus wasn’t thrilled about the notoriety, but he was willing to overlook Libby’s involvement because Postmaster Libby had always been kind and friendly when he ventured into town.

  “So…you want I should leave…a couple of ‘em?” He sometimes forgot to speak in a stumbling, backwoods manner, but he tried.

  She lifted the tarp. “No. I want them all.”

  Too fast. He liked things slow and steady. Quick and impulsive reminded him of New York City.

  “These are wonderful, Rufus. Your style is rich, unique and mystical.” Her words sounded fake but she seemed real. He wasn’t sure what to believe.

  “Here’s what I’d like to do,” she said, turning to face him. “With your permission, I’ll photograph them and work up a couple of design prototypes. Naturally, we’ll also display them here in Char’s shop. Every sale counts, right? But I think you’ll be surprised by how much demand there will be once we get these into the online market.”

  “Even in the bad economy?”

  “Because of the bad economy. People need to foster hope in their dreams more than ever. I sincerely hope I can do your work justice and you’ll consider becoming my first client.”

  The word jolted him. He’d been a client before. His agent had made a boatload of money off R.J. Milne. His financial advisor had made even more—not legitimately, of course, but still…was he ready to be a client again? He’d have to think about it.

  “I’ll leave three. Where do you want ‘em?”

  He saw the momentary dimming of the excitement in her eyes, but he didn’t let it bother him. He’d learned the hard way he couldn’t be responsible for making other people happy.

  “Right inside the door, please. I think I’ll create a Christmas village look around them in the front window. How much are you asking for them?”

  He swallowed harshly. He’d debated that question all the way down the hill. He took a chance and went high.

  Her beautifully shaped brows raked together. “Much too low. Let’s try them at twice that plus Char’s commission. If they don’t get snapped up in a couple of days, I’ll knock them down to a sales price.”

  He doubted they’d sell as fast as she imagined, but he couldn’t fault her enthusiasm. Rachel Grey had an air about her that reminded him of the view from the top of his ridge after a storm--electric and filled with promise and potential.

  Business potential, he reminded himself ste
rnly. That was what he needed in his life. That was all he needed.

  Keep reading: BLACK HILLS OUTCAST

  About the Author

  Winner of Romantic Times Reviewer's Career Achievement "Series Storyteller of the Year" award in 2006, Debra Salonen's 26 titles for Harlequin Publishing sold more than 2.3 million copies, worldwide.

  A six-time nominee for RT's Best Superromance of the Year award, Debra took home that honor in 2010.

  Channel your inner maverick with dynamic, sexy, take charge heroes and the Montana women who know what they want and make their own rules to get it. Read all 9 titles in Debra's Big Sky Mavericks series from Tule Publishing. Available on all platforms and in print.

  Readers and reviewers of Debra's romance novels say:

  "Debra Salonen captures readers' attention with multifaceted characters, layered conflict and fast pacing." ~ Pamela Cohen, RomanticTimes Bookclub

  "No one writes drama like Debra Salonen." ~ Huntress Reviews

  "Great chemistry, great one liners and a sexy cowboy!" ~ C. Arcidiacono

  "This novel had everything, family drama, love, a little bit of sexy and a lot of heart." ~ gertyp

  "...one of the most heartfelt novels I've ever read." ~ Kaitie Campbell

  "Debra Salonen pens a bittersweet love story with a fresh storyline and a love that stays with you long after the book is over." ~ Tami Sutton, The Best Reviews

  Please keep in touch!

  @debsalonen

  DebraSalonenAuthor

  www.debrasalonen.com

  debsalonen@gmail.com

  Also by Debra Salonen

  The Big Sky Mavericks series from Tule Publishing:

  MONTANA COWGIRL - "Cowgirl, you can go home--and love--again."

  MONTANA COWBOY - "He's nobody's cowboy until his new neighbor rocks his world."