Big Sky Seduction

by Daire St. Denis

  “Okay, then. Bye,” Gloria said, even though it was pointless because the truck was already pulling away. She watched Dillon’s truck drive down the street and then turn the corner a few blocks away.

  I am not hurt. I am not upset. This is the way it has to go.

  The woman who’d tended bar the other night was behind the counter when Gloria entered the lobby and called to her before she could climb the stairs to her room on the second floor.

  “You’ve got a bunch of messages.” In her hand was a stack of notepapers. “Oh, and Walt called. He says your car’s fixed.”

  “Thanks,” Gloria said as she walked over, a sense of foreboding filling her because of the sheer number of messages in the woman’s hand. Leaning against the counter, she flipped through them. There were two from Daisy and six from Faith.

  Shit.

  Gloria typed in her password for her phone to find seventeen messages and a bunch of missed calls. Without bothering to read them, Gloria phoned her best friend. Daisy picked up after the second ring.

  “Glo? Oh, my God. Where have you been?”

  “There was a bad storm here. No service. What’s going on?”

  “It’s your dad. He had a heart attack.”

  13

  THE TRIP HOME was a blur, from throwing things into her bag, to picking up the car and racing off to Butte in order to catch the first flight home. Her dad was in the hospital, fighting for his life, while she’d been living a fantasy—going on picnics and having sex and thinking about happiness and forgetting about her life in Chicago as if it didn’t exist.

  That was a mistake.

  When she landed at O’Hare, Faith was there to pick her up. “Don’t panic” were the first words out of her mouth as she gave Gloria a bear hug at the arrival gate. “He’s okay. They just kept him a couple days for observation.”

  There were no tears for Gloria; she needed to be strong and to make up for not being there when her father needed her. It was a forty-five-minute drive to the hospital and Faith tried to fill the silence with questions about Montana but after a number of one-word answers, Gloria finally said, “I quit. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Didn’t they understand?”

  She shook her head, realizing Faith didn’t know Dillon was behind the contract. How could so much have happened in such a short amount of time?

  Well, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She was home now, where she belonged, and there was no point rehashing the whole Montana thing.

  When they arrived at Mount Sinai hospital, Faith led her up to the third floor of the cardiac unit and Gloria heard her father’s voice from down the hall, upset and agitated. As she neared, she was able to make out the specific complaints.

  “I’ve got too much to do to be sitting here in this bed. Who’s in charge? Where’s my doctor? Where are my things?”

  She stood for a millisecond outside his door, composing herself before entering. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Gloria?” Gloria’s father looked pale and fragile in his hospital gown. His hair was unwashed and in disarray, his eyes watery and bloodshot behind his glasses. “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think I’m doing here? I came to see you.” She walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. “How are you?”

  “I’m frustrated, that’s how I am. They’re keeping me here against my will.” There was a tube running through his nose and an IV attached to his hand.

  Upon seeing her, the nurse gave her a pained expression and said, “Doctor Webber will be with you in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.” She took her father’s hand. “Dad. You’re too worked up. You need to rest.”

  His eyes grew larger behind the glasses. “No, Gloria-Rose. Don’t you see? This is all a conspiracy to get me out of my house. For good.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I think there was something—a powder maybe—in one of the letters I got from the state department. I opened it and then, boom! I couldn’t breathe.” He leaned even closer and whispered hoarsely, “It was deliberate.”

  Oh, dear God. Things were worse than she’d thought, and the only way to console her father during moments of acute paranoia was to agree with him. “Okay, Dad. Let me look into it, all right? I’ll get everything checked, send the letter off to a lab, if I have to.”

  “You’ll do that?” His gaze was sadly hopeful.

  “Of course.” She patted his hand, feeling a weight descend upon her shoulders, crushing her.

  A couple of minutes later, a very young doctor appeared in the doorway. “Are you Mr. Hurst’s daughter?”

  “Yes.” Gloria got up to shake his hand.

  “May I speak to you in the hall?”

  Her automatic assumption was that it was dire, and she squeezed her father’s hand while pulling in a shaky breath. He held on and whispered, “Don’t believe a word he says.”

  The doctor closed the door after them and said, “Your father had a very mild heart attack. There doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage to his heart.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “But that doesn’t mean this wasn’t serious. I’ve given medication to lower his blood pressure, but he needs rest and to be in a low-stress environment. We’re releasing him on the condition that he has somewhere to go, somewhere stress free.”

  Nodding and feeling like another ton of concrete was poured on top of her, Gloria said, “Yes. He’ll come home with me. I’ll take care of him.”

  He handed her a few pamphlets. “He needs to be on a low fat, low salt, low sugar diet. No more than thirty minutes of low-impact exercise a day. Walking is good.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. I’ll prescribe some anticoagulants and angiotensin receptor blockers to keep his blood pressure from rising. I’ll also prescribe some stress meds.”

  “He won’t take them.” Gloria sighed. “He won’t take any of this. He doesn’t take medication.”

  “He needs to.” The doctor scribbled on his pad and then ripped the page off and handed the prescription to her. Before he left, he patted her shoulder, as if he knew what she was in for and was wishing her luck.

  Taking another second outside the hospital room door, Gloria plastered on a fake smile and strode back into the room. “Good news, Dad. They’re releasing you and I’m going to take you home.”

  The look of relief on her father’s face broke Gloria’s heart because the hard truth was, taking her dad back home was not a relief and as much as she wanted to be a good daughter, it felt a whole hell of a lot more like a prison sentence.

  * * *

  DILLON SAT IN his truck outside the Gold Dust for ten minutes before taking his cell phone from the glove compartment and scrolling through his contacts to find Gloria’s name. He ran a thumb over the words, a strange action, he realized, as though touching the letters would bring him closer to her. He should have asked her out for dinner or invited her over yesterday. His trailer was a far cry from the ranch house, but surely a woman who was comfortable at the Doghouse wouldn’t mind his deluxe trailer. But he was trying to do the gallant thing—though it was nearly killing him—and give her space to make sure she wanted all these wild and wonderful things they were doing.

  Okay, that was a lie. He had to figure shit out for himself, too. He wanted Red, like he’d never wanted another. Maybe even more than Char, although the comparison didn’t seem equal because the two women were so different. Nothing had brought that home like seeing Gloria in Char’s clothes. That had been weird.

  He touched the number and put the phone to his ear. After three rings, a sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “Who is this?”

  He chuckled. She was sure out of it in the mornings. “This is your ride. Get up, sleepy bones,
it’s time to go to work.”

  There was a pause, followed by a rustling sound. “Dillon?”

  “Who else?”

  “Oh, God. I totally forgot.”

  “Wow. You sleep hard.” An image of Gloria sleeping nestled in his arms on the floor of the cabin came to mind. He wanted to repeat that before she left. “Okay, Red. I’ll give you ten minutes to get your butt down here. Otherwise I’m coming up there, and it won’t be pretty.”

  She sighed heavily into the mouthpiece. “Dillon, I’m not at the hotel.”

  “What?” He rubbed his jaw. “Where are you?”

  “I had to come home. Something happened and—”

  “When are you coming back?”

  It took her a moment to reply. “I’m not coming back.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Dillon. I just can’t.” He heard her take a shuddering breath. “I can’t come back. You need to find someone else.”

  The line went dead before he could ask another question.

  What the fuck just happened?

  He’d just dropped her off yesterday at noon and today she was back in Chicago? Was it something he’d done? Did she have another one of her attacks?

  He slammed his hands against the steering wheel twice before wrenching the truck into gear and driving off. Was this how things went in the big city, hot one minute, cold the next? Did she expect him to pursue her?

  Well, if she thought Dillon Cross was going to up and chase her across the country just to be spurned again, she could just keep on dreaming because it wasn’t going to happen.

  He might seduce, but he never chased.

  By the time he arrived at the ranch, he was in a foul mood. Black as the storm clouds that had pummeled the area only four days ago. He sat in his truck for a few minutes, staring at the house but not really seeing it. Finally he got out, slammed the door and gave the wheel a good hard kick.

  Not even the courtesy of a phone call? She just left?

  He didn’t need that kind of drama in his life. Nope.

  Good riddance to her. She belonged in Chicago and he was kidding himself if he thought she’d ever belong in a place like this with a guy like him. And what the hell was he doing thinking those thoughts anyway? He wasn’t keeping the ranch, so what was the point?

  Curtis waved to him from the barn and Dillon acknowledged him with an upward motion of his head. He took his time making his way over to the barn and when he got there, helped Curtis fill the feed troughs with oats and water, appreciating the man’s silent ways.

  Curtis filled the last of the troughs and then craned his head toward the open barn door. “Where’s Chicago?”

  “She left.” Dillon turned and scratched the nearest horse between the ears.

  “She coming back?”

  “Nope.”

  When Curtis didn’t say anything more, Dillon glanced over at him. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just...it’s too bad. I liked her.”

  “Yeah, well...” Dillon gripped the stall’s gate. Hard. He’d already spent too much time thinking about how he liked Gloria. Now he needed something to distract him. “Let’s try to clear some of the downed trees and get the cattle back over to graze on the west side.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “Don’t call me boss.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  * * *

  WHAT WAS THAT NOISE? A bell? A chime? What? Gloria rolled over in bed and reached for her phone. Three thirty in the morning. Ugh.

  Flipping the covers off, she got out of bed, threw her housecoat over her silk pajamas and quietly padded down the hall to the kitchen. Her father was there, an ancient typewriter on the table, typing what was no doubt a letter of complaint, and the typewriter dinged every time it came to the edge of the sheet.

  She leaned against the wall and watched for a moment. After a week and a half of caring for her father—which was impossible because he wouldn’t listen to her, wouldn’t take his medications, wouldn’t sleep, barely ate—Gloria was exhausted. She was also worried because this past week had forced her to realize just how sick her father was. She supposed she’d always known things were bad; for heaven’s sake, the hoarding was a billboard for OCD behavior. But she’d always hoped things were going to get better. Everything was not fine and Gloria had no idea what to do about it, leaving her feeling powerless and utterly afraid.

  “What are you doing, Dad?” she asked as she entered the room.

  He looked up and frowned. “I’m writing letters.”

  “I can see that.” Letter writing was his new obsession. They piled up as surely as he’d piled up magazines and broken flamingos and plant pots and whatever else he’d become obsessed with. At least the letters didn’t accumulate because he actually sent them off.

  Those poor people on the receiving end of her father’s missives.

  “It’s the middle of the night, Dad.”

  “Gloria-Rose, these letters won’t write themselves.”

  She came closer, resting her hands on her father’s shoulders. “I know, but you need to sleep.”

  “Plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.”

  It was an offhand comment meant in jest, but the immediate thoughts Gloria experienced ranged from panic—because her dad seemed to have a death wish, and she didn’t want him to die—to helplessness—because there was nothing she could do for him. Then there was a third thought, the worst one of them all.

  A voice from the deepest, darkest part of her wished for what he suggested, to see her father’s obsessive life come to an end.

  How can you think that?

  Rubbing her temples in a guilt-ridden attempt to remove the terrible thoughts, she asked, “Where’d you get the typewriter?” The machine had to be circa 1975.

  “That shop down at the end of the street. They were practically giving it away.”

  Of course they were because it was trash. “I told you, you can use my computer whenever you like.”

  He shook his head, his eyes wide. “That’s how they track you. Everything you do, everything you search, it’s all tracked by the State.” He patted the heavy, metal typewriter. “No, this is the best way.”

  The machine dinged again and Gloria sighed. “I’m going back to bed, Dad. You should, too.”

  “When I’m done.”

  “Okay.” Except Gloria knew that he wouldn’t.

  The rest of the night was spent in fitful sleep, her bizarre dreams filled with bells as she made her way through a maze made up of piles of papers, giant letters and heaps of old typewriters. Every time the bell sounded, she needed to change directions, taking her deeper and deeper into chaos.

  Once she got to work, she made an extra strong pot of coffee and sat at her desk, staring blankly at the 3-D profile Faith had done for one of their current clients. What she needed to do was itemize the furniture that needed to be leased for the showing, not stare blankly, doing nothing. However for perhaps the first time in her career, Gloria could not bring herself to care about her work.

  Finally, after a half hour of blinking and thinking, Gloria made a list. Call suppliers. Order paint. Arrange for movers and storage unit. Confirm times with the client. Contact real estate agent and coordinate showings.

  All that staring had dried out her eyes, making each blink feel like sandpaper scraping the surface. After finding eyedrops in her desk, she tilted her head back to apply them when Faith knocked on her door. She blotted the tears that formed and waited until she could focus, and found Faith standing inside her office, wearing a dopey grin.

  “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone.” The word was emphasized with an eyebrow wiggle.

  “Okay, I’ll
be right out.”

  She picked up her mug of coffee and went to the door. In the reception area was a man who looked too large for the small space. Not only that, he looked completely out of place with his denim jeans, his button-down shirt, his boots and hat.

  “Is this the stupid cowboy from Wyoming?” Faith whispered but Gloria ignored her because she had tunnel vision and Dillon filled it. Completely.

  “Hi, Gloria.”

  When she finally found her voice, Gloria said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.” His gaze flicked to Faith. “Privately.”

  Oh, no. No. She couldn’t see him alone. She was weak where the man was concerned and she couldn’t be weak at a time like this. She needed to be strong. In fact, she’d purposefully refrained from telling Dillon about her father because knowing Dillon, he’d show up here—like he was now—trying to take care of things, when there was nothing he could do.

  Lifting her chin and pulling her shoulders back, Gloria said, “There’s nothing to talk about. I’ve made my decision, Dillon. If I owe you money, let me know and I’ll reimburse you.”

  He removed his hat. Oh, that wasn’t fair because now she could see his wonderful whiskey-colored eyes. “Here’s the thing, Red. I need you.”

  Those three words buckled her knees and Gloria had to hold on to the back of a chair for support.

  “I mean, I can do all those repairs you mentioned. But I haven’t the first clue about how to arrange the house or do any of that shit.”

  “You don’t need me,” she said. “You could ask Sage from the shop to help you. She’s got a good eye. Or Faith, my assistant, could go.”

  “I could,” Faith piped up.

  His nostrils flared as if he’d taken a deep breath. “I don’t want Sage...or Faith. No offense.” He directed this last part toward the young woman.

  “None taken.”

  He swept his gaze over to Gloria. “I want you.”

  Three more words that nearly killed her. “Look, Dillon. I’m sorry. A personal issue has come up and I...”