Montana Rogue (Big Sky Mavericks Book 7)

by Debra Salonen

  “Hey,” she said, catching up with Tucker at the base of the handicap ramp someone had installed in the not-so-distant past. “I didn’t mean to expose you to our family drama. Hellers don’t usually air dirty laundry in public.”

  He snickered in a way that connected deep inside her. She couldn’t pinpoint the exact location, but the feeling wasn’t unpleasant. “Someone should tell that to your grandmother. The first day I met her Molly informed me that her weak ninny of a daughter married the first man with money who asked her.”

  She slipped past him to grab the exterior all-weather door. “Too late for that. Molly’s way past the point where she gives a fig about criticism. Do you know what she told me when I walked into her hospital room the first time?”

  He paused, leaning on his crutches, head cocked in that irreverent way that made her a little weak in the knees. “Nope.”

  “She said, ‘You can get back in that airplane and go tell those lily-livered cowards who sentcha that if I can’t die in my own bed, I’m not gonna die. Ever.’”

  His chuckle felt warm and inclusive. “Wow. I like that lady. She’s got spunk with a capital S.”

  The steady whump-thump of the rubber tips of his crutches against the redwood-colored composite decking had a melodic sound to it, except for a half-note discrepancy.

  “The house plans,” she murmured, feeling stupid for not noticing sooner the rolled up blueprints tucked under one arm.

  What was it about this man that made her so flustered and distracted? At Bainbridge-Smythe, she’d been known for her attention to detail.

  “Let me help.”

  His jaw tensed but he balanced on one crutch so she could remove the, now, slightly squished plans. He didn’t seem overly happy about her holding the door for him, either.

  Male pride? Or something else? Something that had to do with the pronounced zing that ping-ponged through her chest cavity to land in her mid-section when their upper arms brushed against each other’s as he passed through the doorway?

  Strange. Unnerving. And yet...intriguing.

  “How’s your foot, by the way?” she asked, grabbing at any distraction.

  “Better every day.”

  His shrug drew attention to his broad shoulders, reinforcing Amanda’s thought the first time they met of how wrong it looked to see a man as strong and vital as Tucker Montgomery with a pair of crutches under his arms.

  Once inside, he headed straight for the dining room. “The scope of work is pretty cut and dried. Paul’s bid is attached to the blueprints. The price seems fair to me. But there’s one thing I can’t get my head around. Woke me up last night, in fact.”

  Amanda turned up the heat at the central control before following him. The house had been closed up for so long it felt damp, chilly, and neglected. “What was the last thing you said? I missed it. Mother’s email this morning said I should get at least three bids.”

  Tucker made a sound of pure impatience. “In the city? Sure. Out here? Why bother? I have no doubt Paul’s team can handle the work, but I did call a couple of references he listed just to be sure. Each person I talked to said Big Z’s was the best for this type of job.”

  His thoroughness surprised her. And that surprise must have shown on her face because he said, “What? You thought I was just a pretty face?”

  His teasing tone brought a smile to her lips, despite her resolve to remain businesslike around him. “I not only know what the Good Ol’ Boy Network is, I lost my job because of it. I figured since your friend’s brother is engaged to Paul Zabrinski’s sister, awarding the job to Big Z’s might be considered nepotism.” She frowned. “I know all about that, too.”

  He leaned his crutches against the wall then braced his hands on the table rather than taking a seat. “Business is business—even in Montana. I got six bids for the zip line and checked out each company’s references. I wound up going with the one that had the highest customer satisfaction, not the cheapest.”

  Satisfaction. Was it just Amanda? Or did the word seem to roll off his tongue with a dose of Southern honey when most of the time he had no accent?

  He motioned for her to unroll the plans. “Paul provided an itemized bid. You can double-check the cost before you sign the contract. But we need to re-think the laundry room. Repurposing the pantry might make sense for a young family. I don’t think a stackable washer and dryer is the way to go. Your grandmother will never be able to reach the controls.”

  Amanda could have shared the fact her family had no intention of letting Molly back into her house, but her father’s demand of secrecy made her agree with his point. Molly would hate a washer/dryer combo. Heck, the woman’s preferred washing machine of choice was an old-fashioned surge action machine with a wringer.

  “What’s the alternative?”

  The thick vellum wouldn’t stay unrolled, so she grabbed a couple of knick-knacks from the curio cabinet to set on the corners. Two glass paperweights and a set of bookends shaped like buffalo did the trick.

  “By the way, we haven’t talked about your PR project in a couple of days. Is everything back on track?”

  “Supposedly. I’m expecting a call from Justin this morning to hear whether or not the forms for the first anchor post passed. I’m trying to stay busy doing other things so I don’t fret and stew. It’s like Ona always says, ‘Plan away. Just don’t count on nothing turning out the way you plan.’”

  “You’ve mentioned this Ona person so often, I have to ask. Where’s your mother?”

  “Not in the picture. My grandparents raised me.”

  The casual statement raised a plethora of questions. But Amanda’s natural curiosity about people had been drilled out of her at an early age. “You do not ask the help about their lives beyond this house. That is none of your business, Amanda,” her father had scolded her after she asked a maid if she had children. “Do you understand?”

  She’d been too terrified not to nod in agreement, even though she’d wanted to ask, “Why?”

  But she wasn’t in New York City anymore. This was Montana, and her father’s rules didn’t apply. The thought had crossed her mind that now might be the perfect opportunity to reinvent herself. Maybe she’d start by indulging her curiosity.

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “My dad died of a brain aneurysm when I was a baby. My mother went back to her old life and left me with Ona and Granddad. People called him Twig.”

  Before she could ask, “Why?”, he added, “My mother was—still is, actually—a classical musician. Her parents didn’t approve of the marriage, and she felt I’d have a better life with my father’s family.”

  “Did you?”

  “No question about it. I grew up with two dozen cousins, fresh air and exercise, and more freedom than most kids ever experience. I had the best childhood of anyone I know.”

  And, yet... She sensed there was more to the story, but before she could ask he flipped a page on the blueprints and pointed to an object circled in red.

  “There’s nothing wrong with this design if the goal is to make changes that will facilitate the sale of the house once your grandmother is gone. But, I think you’d be better off leaving the pantry where it is and creating a laundry area on the back porch where that ancient freezer sits. What eighty-year-old woman needs a deep freeze?”

  “She doesn’t. But in case you didn’t notice, Molly doesn’t get rid of anything.”

  He straightened and looked around. “True. But that’s where you come in. You’re supposed to downsize all this crap before Molly comes home. If I remember right, Flynn put ‘remove clutter’ at the top of his fix-it list.”

  Amanda dreaded the thought of going through Molly’s so-called treasures. Her mother had ordered her to separate things into two piles: junk and anything of value. “You’re no stranger to quality,” June had said in an email. “If you have any question, send me a photo and I’ll tell you which pile it belongs in.”

  Amanda already kne
w she planned to add a third pile: things Molly cherished. She looked over her shoulder at the ten-inch tall glass figurine of Don Quixote glimmering under the light in the dusty curio cabinet. The skinny figure balanced atop a burl wood base. He waved an uplifted sword in one hand while the other hand held a shield to his heart. She didn’t know what exactly drew her to the stylized collectible, but the figurine made her smile and she knew without being told Molly had picked this up because it meant something to her.

  “Is the porch insulated and heated?” she asked, changing the subject.

  He shook his head. “No idea. And I can’t say for sure how much work it will be to move the water. You’ll need to check out the plumbing in the basement.”

  “The basement?” A chill passed down her spine. “Me?”

  He lifted his bad foot.

  “Okay. I can do that.” Maybe.

  Amanda hated basements. She knew why, of course, but a twenty-year-old memory shouldn’t hold any power over her adult self, right? She wasn’t a scared little girl, picked on by her older sisters and overlooked by her self-absorbed parents.

  “If it’s a problem, we can wait for Paul. But you’ll have to take his word for it.”

  She righted her shoulders. “I’m not a fan of dark, clammy places, but I’ll go.” She wiped her sweaty palms on her black skinny jeans. “After all, my grandmother was doing her own laundry down there up till a month or so ago, right?”

  When she turned toward the hallway, he followed. “I’ll wait at the top of the stairs.” With a shot of whiskey, she thought she heard him add.

  Was she really that easy to read? Not according to her friends and coworkers. Miss Poker Face, they called her.

  She marched to the basement door and yanked it open. I can do this. Molly walked down these steps every day of her life. No fear allowed.

  Amanda knew that thinking positively usually brought positive results but not always. Her stomach knotted the moment she took her first step downward. Her knees wobbled so badly she had to white-knuckle the banister as she slowly descended.

  “Looking good,” Tucker called from behind her, like a Little League coach.

  “Flynn was right,” she called back. “These steps suck. It’s amazing Molly didn’t break her neck on these years ago.”

  “That’s Flynn Bensen. Always looking out for old ladies.”

  She didn’t know what that meant or why his tone sounded so sardonic, but she didn’t care. Despite her effort to take slow, deep breaths, she could feel the basement walls squeezing in. “Too much Alice in Wonderland,” her mother had called Amanda’s meltdown after her sisters tricked her into accompanying them to the basement of their summer home on Long Island and then locked the door with Amanda on the other side. Alone and afraid something horrible was climbing the stairs to get her.

  “Do you know how to swim?” Tucker asked, distracting her.

  She looked upward from the ladder-like steps. “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “This place would make a great indoor pool. We could call it ‘The Grotto.’”

  The audacity—and silliness—of the idea provided the distraction he, no doubt, was going for. “But where would we put the swim-up bar?”

  “Good point. And moving the furnace might be cost prohibitive. Too bad. I’ve always wanted a grotto. I might have even considered buying this place somewhere down the road after Molly’s gone, if it had a grotto.”

  She hopped two-footed from the bottom step to the concrete floor. Dry. Not a hint of mildew or mold despite the cozy, cave-like temperature. Nothing like the dank black hole she remembered from that rainy afternoon in her childhood.

  “How’s it look?”

  She flipped on a light switch and groaned. “Scary.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve found the mother lode...of packing boxes. Double—no, triple—the junk I saw in the attic. Good grief. It will take me weeks to go through everything.”

  His laugh made the last of her childish fears evaporate.

  “Any spiders?”

  “Not really. A few webs, but nothing too horrible.” She turned her back on the work that awaited her and walked to her grandmother’s laundry area. Tidy. Well-organized.

  She picked up a super-size jug of environmentally friendly detergent. “Newer model top loader. She uses the same brand of laundry soap as I do. But there’s also one of those old wringer type machines sitting here. Back-up, I guess.”

  “Ona has one of those, too. Says it works better than the high-efficiency set I bought her,” he called out. “I think all the buttons intimidate her. But my aunt does most of Ona’s laundry, now, and she loves it.”

  Amanda opened the lid. A red sock clung to the upper rim. Dry and stiff. Red socks. So Molly.

  “Does the plumbing follow the wall?”

  She stuck the sock in her back pocket where she realized she’d put her phone. “I’ll take some photos for you.”

  While she was at it, she decided to document all the boxes. Some were labeled, most weren’t. As she explored, it crossed her mind that she’d never been this comfortable in a basement before. But she’d never had a lifeline to the ground floor, either.

  When she returned to the steps and looked up, she saw her unlikely hero still waiting. Something clicked in her mind. I like him.

  “I just got a text from Justin. The forms passed inspection. He’s calling for concrete.”

  She hurried up the ridiculously steep stairs. “It’s killing you not to be there, isn’t it?”

  His grin told her yes. “Boys dig in dirt. It’s what we do.” He tapped his chest in a purely macho way. “I may have to build a second zip line next year just so I can get my backhoe fix.”

  This second glimpse of his entrepreneurial side made her curious. “I thought you were a firefighter in the summers. What happened to that job?”

  His smile went flat. He backed up carefully to give her space to get past him. “My ankle for one thing. But, to be honest, last season was rough. Flynn had a close call that made a big impression on all of us. I sort of took it as a sign it was time to move on. Goat’s got me signed up for one of the volunteer fire departments around here, and Flynn says I’ll be on his Search and Rescue roster as soon as my foot heals. But from now on, the zip line will be my summer job.”

  The perfect segue to ask about his winter employment, Amanda told herself.

  Like the responsible businesswoman she was, Amanda had done her homework and discovered without much digging the existence of Tucker’s alter ego, an exotic dancer named The Full Mountie.

  She bit down on a grin. June Heller would be apoplectic if she found out Amanda had hired a male stripper to oversee Molly’s job. Good thing her mother had no intention of setting foot in Montana again.

  Unfortunately, before she could ask the question, both of their phones jingled and beeped, respectively.

  Tucker held up his. “PT. I have to set an alarm so I don’t forget.”

  Amanda tapped the same icon. “Time for Molly’s appointment, too. Shall we?”

  Could this morning get any suckier? Tucker asked himself an hour later.

  “Full extension, please,” ordered the twenty-something baby doll with big eyes, shiny pink lips and a very interested expression on her face.

  The senior physical therapist that owned the place and ran the show was ten years older than Tucker and all business. His four female assistants were much younger and very attractive—even the pregnant one assisting Molly on a machine that worked the old woman’s arms and upper body. Tucker watched from the ankle torture device across the room.

  Not that the size of the room or the number of people in their captive audience kept Molly from shouting things at him.

  “Hey, you, are you the one messing with my house?”

  “No, ma’am,” he answered truthfully. “These hands do not know how to swing a hammer.”

  “Better not. When June gets here, you tell her to stop all this talk about fixi
n’ my house. I like my house just fine the way it is.”

  Tucker had heard that refrain before. Many times. Molly often confused Amanda with her estranged daughter. Occasionally, out of the blue, Molly would blurt out some bizarre factoids from the distant past. Like the day she told Tucker one of the first toys June asked Santa for was a cash register.

  The old lady had chortled. “She learned how to count at her daddy’s knee and he’d give her candy when she got something right. No wonder she got fat and went to college to find a rich husband.”

  The comment had reminded him of some gossip his grandmother had shared about a friend whose great-granddaughter who had her priorities stuck in the fifties. “The child had the audacity to announce to her family that she planned to graduate Hubby Cum Laude,” Ona said.

  “Mrs. O’Neal still has her moments,” the tech said. Bambi, according to the photo ID hanging on a lanyard around her neck, may have been nineteen if she was lucky. “My grandma was the same way. Some days she’d be perfectly normal—or you’d think she was. Then, suddenly, she’d call me by somebody else’s name.”

  “I can’t speak to the lucidity of her mind, but Molly’s hearing is better than mine,” Tucker said in a low voice.

  Twice, Molly had picked up on his conversational comments and demanded answers.

  The first was when he’d mentioned his idea for moving the laundry area upstairs.

  “Don’t you touch my washing machine,” Molly had exploded. “I’ve had that since before you were born. Don’t you move it, Patrick. I’m warning you.”

  Patrick. The name of Amanda’s grandfather, he believed.

  Tucker rubbed the groove in his forehead that seemed to be growing deeper by the hour.

  “Too much pain?” Bambi asked.

  “In the ass, yes.”

  “I heard that.” Molly’s shout was followed by a string of blush-worthy expletives.

  Bambi twittered. “Wow. My grandma never talked like that.”

  Once he’d completed the required number of reps, Bambi told him, “You’re doing great. Doc has you down for ten minutes in the whirlpool then I’ll do an ultrasound treatment.”