Bear Fate: A Billionaire Oil Bearons Romance (Bear Fursuits Book 8)

by Isadora Montrose

  Her bare head smelled of woman. Of Amber. The dark curls tickled his nose. He was sorry when they reached the overhang and he had no more excuse to hold her in his arms. But he was careful not to slide her down past his woody. She came up to his chin, which he had known already.

  “Thank you,” she said. She reached for the doorknob and held it for him, grinning. An independent woman.

  Hank’s was pretty much the same as usual. The wooden bar was crowded with single fellas drinking beer. The area in front of the homemade stage had been cleared of tables. Someone had hung up a mirrored ball and shone red lights on it. It revolved slowly casting a pink glow on the little tables and the scarred wooden floor.

  Hank had tried. He really had. There were four red hearts pasted on the walls, almost covering the ads for Coors and Budweiser. Red tissue paper streamers had been taped below the glitter ball. The decorations looked about the way lipstick on a mule would look. Odd, but showing a lot of spirit.

  The bar was already full and noisy with everyone talking all at once. George Strait blared from the jukebox. Later the band would arrive and there would be dancing. He found them a table off to one side and held Amber’s chair for her. Julie came over with a tray of empty glasses. Her smile was extra wide and he was afraid she would say something about him bringing a woman to the bar. But she only wiped their table with her rag.

  “What’ll it be, Lance?”

  He wasn’t drinking alcohol, of course. He had to drive home. Alcohol and motor vehicles didn’t mix. Especially not if there was going to be snow. “I’ll have a coke. Amber?”

  “I’m a cheap date.” She was blushing again. “A coke will do me fine too. Thank you.”

  “You’re new around here,” Julie said.

  “I was hired on at the Stud, just after Christmas,” Amber said. When she could have claimed kinship with the oil-rich Bascoms.

  The Bascoms might mostly act like just folks — at least the boss and her daddy did — but Amber didn’t seem to want their reflected glory. He filed that fact away for later.

  George finished crooning and the band straggled out from the back. Three banjos, a guitar and two singers. They weren’t bad, but neither were they good. As soon as they finished tuning up, people got up and formed an eager line.

  “We’ll go up to dance when you’ve finished your drink,” Lance said.

  “Oh, I’ll nurse this one all night,” Amber replied. “I told you I was a cheap date.”

  “I’ll buy you a new one after we’re finished. You should never drink from a glass you’ve left unattended in a strange bar.”

  Her blue eyes rounded. “Why ever not?”

  “I thought you spent some time in Portland?” he asked.

  She shook her head. Dark curls bounced against her red sweater. “Nope. What happens to your drink if you leave it for a few minutes? Besides the ice cubes melting?”

  “Have you never heard of date rape drugs?”

  “Roofies,” she gasped. Her blue eyes got even rounder. She looked around as if she had suddenly found herself in a den of iniquity.

  “That’s right, among other things.” He made a note to himself not to leave Amber alone for a New York minute.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Amber~

  Lance tugged her onto the dance floor, ignoring the incredulous looks from the other fellows. They weren’t used to seeing Lance Prescott getting up to dance. And they sure as hell weren’t used to him getting up with the prettiest girl in the room. He liked the way Amber kept her eyes soft and friendly even when they rested on his damaged face.

  Out of deference to her, he was wearing his eyepatch. The black leather was hot and uncomfortable, so he preferred not to wear it if he could manage it. He usually had to keep it on at work to keep the dust out of his bad eye. His left eye was so badly damaged it could not blink fast enough to keep dirt and debris away from the eyeball. And it was down to fifteen percent vision anyway.

  Between the irritation and the risk of infection, he stood to make bad worse if he didn’t keep it covered most of the time. He had settled for wearing the eyepatch whenever he was working with hay or horses. He had worn it tonight because he thought Amber would probably not want to look at his disfigurement all evening. But it meant he had to keep her on his right or he couldn’t see her at all.

  They joined the line. Other people made room for them and howdied in a friendly way. Amber returned their greetings and admitted she was a stranger. She was as light on her feet as he had hoped. She didn’t know the steps, but she watched, and she picked them up fast.

  “You’re pretty good at this,” he said.

  “I was a cheerleader,” she said grinning.

  “A cheerleader?”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t think it to look at me, but until I was sixteen I was no wider than a whisker, and short too.” She chuckled. He spun her, and she clapped her hands to the beat and kicked both feet and turned to the left just as she was supposed to.

  After a couple more dances, he led her back to their table. Two strangers had pulled up extra chairs. Lance didn’t know them. And he didn’t like the look of those men. But the bar had filled up and there was now nowhere else to sit. He pulled out Amber’s chair for her and showed his teeth. “Howdy. I’m Lance and this is Amber.”

  Dog and Blondie introduced themselves. But volunteered no further information. Resignedly, he sat down between Amber and the outsiders, which gave her his left side to look at. “Amber and I work at the Bascom Quarter Horse Stud,” he continued, keeping his voice friendly. “You fellows from around here?”

  Dog and Blondie guffawed. “Nah. Do we look like a bunch of hicks?”

  Actually, they did. In their plaid shirts and faded jeans and battered cowboy boots, they were dressed like half the guys in the bar. It was just his luck, to have these two assholes choose to sit at his table. Amber edged her chair a little further from Dog’s, and a little closer to his. Great. She didn’t like them either. Some fine date.

  “Would you like another coke?” he asked her.

  “I think I’ll go to the restroom first. Which way is it?”

  “It’s at the back. Down the hall.” He pointed to the sign which was almost obscured by one of the Happy Valentine’s Day banners. Amber got up and took her purse and went to the back.

  “You know, you fellas might want to think about sitting somewhere else. This is my first date with the lady, and I sure was hoping to get to know her better.”

  Dog and Blondie looked as though they wanted to argue. But Blondie dug his elbow into Dog’s gut and transformed what was almost certainly going to be a crude remark into a shit-eating grin. They stood up and shoved past other tables right up to the bar. Hank nodded at them, but he was busy pulling pints, and confined his inspection to narrowing his eyes.

  Lance glanced towards the doorway that Amber had gone through. When he looked back at the bar, Blondie had decided he too needed the restroom. Lance didn’t quite understand why he was twitchy, and he wasn’t sure what he had missed. Having monocular vision was a bitch.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Amber~

  She put another smear of lipstick on. She seemed to have chewed off the layers she had applied at home. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing. That was the worst part of having pale skin. As soon as she exercised she got two big clown circles on her cheeks, as though she didn’t know how to apply rouge.

  Her hair was all right. She dragged a comb through her bangs and tossed the long, curling ends of the rest over her shoulders. The red sweater looked good against her dark hair. And the gray and white scarf made a pleasant counterpoint.

  Lance made her feel like a bit of a bumpkin. Not that he was mean. He hadn’t exactly laughed at her. But she could tell he was mentally rolling his eyes at her naivety. She couldn’t help that. She was just a small-town girl, from up on Yakima Ridge. Success, Colorado, was not exactly the big city. But it felt really weird to go out and not know a soul but the guy who br
ought you.

  Back home in French Town, she always knew everyone in the room. Even if they knew where to get them, no one would put date rape drugs in your glass. Every now and again some kids would try to add liquor to the punch. And get caught and stopped and sent home in shame by the sharp-eyed elders chatting against the walls. They didn’t have a bar in French Town. You had to drive into Hanover if you wanted one. Not that she ever had. She and Willie had been underage when they were courting.

  Aside from the Bascoms, she hadn’t thought that there were any shifters in Success. But although his companion was merely human, Blondie smelled like a snake. She wasn’t too sure what kind, but she thought rattlesnake. Back on the Ridge, shifters ran mostly to bears. From time to time she had met wolves, coyotes and cougars. But never a snake. Probably she was just being small town and insular, and prejudiced, but Blondie made her skin crawl.

  She pushed the restroom door open. The ill-lit hallway was even dingier than she remembered. Blondie was standing right in front of the ladies’ room. He smiled at her, and she suppressed her shudder. She hadn’t been too happy to have Blondie and Dog sitting at their table – even with stalwart Lance between her and them. But, here in the shadows, she felt afraid.

  “How about a dance, darlin’?” Blondie asked. He reached for her hand.

  “No, thank you,” Amber said clearly and distinctly. She deliberately folded her arms across her chest and broadened her stance.

  “Don’t be so standoffish,” Blondie said. This time his hand closed on her elbow.

  “Let me go,” Amber said. With an effort, she kept her voice level and uninflected.

  Blondie yanked her towards him. Amber didn’t bother stopping to think. She raked the edge of Heather’s boot sole down his shin and stomped hard on his instep with the heel. Blondie promptly let go of her. He shrieked. He pulled his right arm back. And before his slap landed, she kicked him in the gut with her left foot – just like her cousin Joey Benoit* had shown her to do.

  She followed up with a smack across the nose with the hard edge of her purse. Hard hands pulled her away from Blondie. She was standing behind Lance before she could catch her breath. And he was doing something swift and severe to Blondie that had him falling to the floor clutching his wrist and whimpering like a baby.

  “I was managing just fine,” she snapped.

  “So you were,” Lance said agreeably. “And I’d back you against this son of a bitch in a fair fight. But I draw the line at letting an unarmed woman tackle a thug with a knife.” He opened his hand and she saw he was holding a knife with a six-inch blade.

  A short, stout man spoke from the doorway. “Everything okay?” His voice was the voice of authority.

  “He broke my arm,” Blondie complained from the ground. His nose dripped blood. She had done that, she thought proudly.

  “Just your wrist.” Lance showed the stout man the knife. “He pulled this on Miss Dupré, Roy,” Lance said. “I had to take it away from him.”

  Roy put a meaty hand down and yanked Blondie to his feet by the collar of his shirt. “That would be assault with a deadly weapon,” he said cheerfully. “That’s a felony here in Colorado. You’re under arrest.”

  “He broke my fucking wrist,” groused Blondie thickly. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Roy twisted his hand so that the collar tightened enough to shut Blondie up. “I’m the sheriff,” he said calmly. “We’ll take you by the clinic on our way to the jail – and if it’s closed, and likely it is on a Saturday night – once you’re booked, the deputies will take you to Acton.”

  Roy was joined by a pleasant featured woman, wearing the uniform of a sheriff’s deputy. “Now ain’t this a shame?” she said sadly, shaking her head so that her brown ponytail swayed. “And on your day off, Sheriff. We’ll just put him in the squad car and take him to the jail. And you can go and finish your beer with Mrs. Ramirez.”

  “What about my fucking wrist?” whined Blondie. “And my nose is broke too.”

  Roy Ramirez ignored Blondie. “I don’t mind if you don’t, Olga. Is Jaime with you?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll take this fella to the station.” She led Blondie away with his wrists cuffed together in front of him. “You keep still, and that wrist won’t hurt as bad,” Olga Flores advised.

  “We’ll need a statement from you, Lance,” Roy Ramirez said. “And you too, Miss Dupré. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough. You finish up your evening, and don’t let that low down, sorry son of a gun destroy your fun.”

  *Bearly Enough

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lance~

  “Do you want to dance?” he asked Amber.

  Her face was white. She shook her head. “Could we go home, please?”

  Damn. Looked like his date was over before it really began. Who could blame her?

  “We’ll do that,” he assured her. He kept his body between her and the people milling around. “I don’t want you to think that those two are a sample of Colorado men. They’re not typical and they’re not from around here.”

  The deputies had hustled Blondie out, ignoring his pal Dog, who had stormed out of the bar after them grumbling, but not actually making threats. Sheriff Ramirez raised a hand as Lance pushed the door open for Amber. In the parking lot, the patches of ice were still a hazard. He smiled down at her. She still looked strained and unhappy.

  “I’ll carry you again,” he offered, “Unless you have some objection.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lance handed Amber his keys and swung her into his arms. Despite their heavy coats, he relished the softness of her hip against his belly and the firmness of her back and thighs. But in two steps they were at his pickup and he had no excuse to hold her. He angled her so she could get the passenger door opened.

  “Thank you,” she repeated as he put her on the seat.

  He turned the heater on high. “You want to tell me what brought on that fight?” He pulled onto the road.

  “Blondie was waiting for me when I came out of the ladies’ room.” Amber sounded mad. “He asked me to dance. I declined. He grabbed me. I don’t put up with that from anyone,” she said.

  “That’s a nice trick you have with your boot heel,” he said. “And you sure got him good with your bag.” He liked that in a woman.

  “One of my cousins taught me and my sister how to look after ourselves. I’ve used that technique a time or two. But I’ve never had anyone pull a knife on me.”

  “That was a bit unusual — even for a bar fight.” Lance nodded. “All women should know some self-defense. Don’t you worry, Blondie picked the wrong county to assault a woman. He’ll do some jail time, and Ramirez will see that Dog stays on the other side of the county line.”

  He made a note to tell Carlos Diego about this evening’s fracas. Since they had halted the cattle rustling last spring*, things had mostly been quiet on the ranch and the stud. The culprits had been arrested, but Laura’s husband Steve Holden had always felt that they had not caught all the rustlers. Lance had just been glad that the sabotage had stopped. Not that he had any reason to suspect Dog and Blondie of being cattle thieves.

  Just because a couple of fellas were the kind of jerkwads who grabbed unwilling females, they weren’t necessarily criminals. But over the years he had learned that criminal activities often spilled over into generally antisocial behavior. Wasn’t anything much more antisocial than laying violent hands on a woman.

  “We’ll go into town after morning stables to make our statements,” he said. “I’ll fix it with Carlos.”

  Amber looked relieved.

  “And we’ll try going to Hank’s another time.” He waited hopefully.

  “I’d like that.” She even sounded like she meant it.

  *Bear Pause

  CHAPTER TEN

  Amber~

  Maybe if she hadn’t grown up in fear of Bobby’s Dupré’s fists, she wouldn’t have overreacted in the bar. But her stepfather had a bad temper and had never hesit
ated to smack her and Heather around. Time was she had believed they deserved the beatings they received. But she had grown up and realized that Uncle Bobby was just meaner than a snake. But her fear of male strength remained.

  Lance was capable of violence. He had expertly broken Blondie’s wrist with a single move. He didn’t look that strong. But she knew he was. Lance trained Quarter Horses all day every day and in between did the hundred and one things that needed doing in a stable. And he had been a soldier. He had known how to disarm and disable Blondie as smoothly and easily as he groomed Laura Bascom’s big stallions. Not that Blondie had not deserved it. Pulling a knife on a woman just because she turned a dance down was crazy – even for a snake shifter.

  Besides she knew lots of men just as lethal as Lance who would never use their expertise to hurt a woman. Her cousin Joey Benoit, who had taught her how to respond to attack, had been in the Reserves until he married his Caitlin*. He knew a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat.

  Joey would have made two of Lance. He was a big, blocky bear with bulky shoulders and long arms. And a chest as broad and deep as a barrel. Yet he was as gentle with his wife and kids as he was protective. Lance was lean and wiry. More of a willow than a redwood. And no kind of a shifter at all.

  She sniffed the air delicately. Lance didn’t smell angry. Or not much. His gloved hands on the steering wheel were relaxed and easy. She decided he didn’t scare her. His violence had been result-oriented. He had intervened to stop her from getting hurt and praised her efforts at self-defense. Catch one of those trolls from French Town praising a woman for her fighting skills. Most men in French Town were not as enlightened as Joey Benoit.

  On the other hand, Lance was aroused. Again. Ever since the morning he had burst in on her in the altogether that had been his normal. Not that he had done anything about his arousal, other than ask her to this dance. She kept glancing at him but he kept his attention on the road.