Trouble in Paradise

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Oh, I have lots of favorites.” She took a sip of red fruit punch from the tall plastic tumbler in her hand. After a moment, she said, “Mary Higgins Clark was the first writer to make me think I’d like to write a novel. And there are a number of wonderful Christian suspense novelists who inspire me.”

  “You ever come visit Lauretta when you were a youngster?” asked Hydrangea Zimmerman, a woman in her early seventies with sun-leathered skin and watery blue eyes.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, girl, I think I met you back then. Freckle faced, with your nose peeling from a sunburn. Just knee-high to a grasshopper, you were.” She chuckled. “Not much different from what you are now.”

  “That was me.”

  The wizened old woman, a good two inches shorter than Shayla, leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial whisper, added, “Don’t envy them tall folk. They’re always hitting their heads on one thing or another.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Is this your first book you’re working on?” Geneve Barnett inquired.

  “Yes. But I’ve wanted to try my hand at it for many years.”

  And so the evening went. Only one thing kept it from being perfect—it wasn’t Ian standing at her side.

  From the darkened balcony at the north end of the Grange Hall, Ian watched as Shayla mingled, talked, laughed. That lilting laughter that made him smile whenever he heard it. And it wasn’t only a smile it brought him. It also lightened his heart, made his insides feel airy, weightless as a cloud.

  So that was the way it was going to be, he thought as he stared down from his lofty sanctuary. He wasn’t going to listen to his own good sense. He wasn’t going to heed the voice of wisdom that told him he would be better off pursuing someone else.

  Anybody else.

  No, he was going to obey the urging of his heart instead. Maybe it wouldn’t lead anywhere. Then again, maybe it would. He might as well find out, one way or the other.

  “Sorry, Ty,” he whispered, “but I’m not honoring any claims you might’ve made on our little mystery writer. All’s fair from this point on.”

  Thirty minutes later, on the drive home to Paradise, Ian hummed softly to himself. But it wasn’t until he pulled into the barnyard, cut the engine and turned off the headlights that he recognized the song running through his head. The lyrics included something about taking a chance on love.

  He remained in the cab as he silently repeated those words: Taking a chance on love.

  He’d loved Joanne with everything in him.

  Then he’d let love die.

  And then he’d let Joanne die—or so it seemed to him at the time.

  Could he love a woman that way again? Could that woman be Shayla? And if he did fall for her, would he live to regret it?

  He didn’t know, but it was time to find out.

  “Thank you, Ty. It was a lovely evening.”

  “For me, too. Maybe we can do it again.”

  “Maybe.”

  She avoided him trying to kiss her on the mouth by placing a hand on his shoulder, then rising on tiptoe to lightly brush his cheek with her lips.

  “Good night,” she said as she opened the door and slipped inside. The moment she flicked on the light, Honey Girl whimpered an excited greeting and scratched at the door of her crate.

  “Ready to go outside, little one?”

  Shayla opened the door to release the puppy. Honey Girl ran circles around her legs.

  “Let’s get you outside.” She patted her thigh. “Come on, Honey.”

  A full moon floated above the mountains in the east, seemingly perched on their craggy peaks, bathing the valley in a blanket of white. The light undulated atop the field grasses, rising and swelling with the whims of the midnight breeze.

  In the city, she wouldn’t have dared wander outside alone at this time of night. Here, she felt safe doing so.

  Here, everything was different.

  “Even I’m different.”

  She couldn’t explain it, not even to herself, but she felt more alive, more confident, than she’d felt in a long, long while. Maybe because she was following the path she believed God wanted her to take.

  The image of Ian O’Connell drifted into her mind. There was no denying that she was attracted to him. Almost from day one there’d been something that drew her to him. While she knew she and Ty Sheffield—despite how much she enjoyed this evening—would never be more than friends, Ian could pose a serious distraction. That wouldn’t be a good thing.

  Shayla stopped and stared at the starry heavens. “Lord, I’m grateful for all You’ve done for me. I’m thankful for this chance to write, to see if I really have what it takes. Help me to be obedient to Your calling. Help me not to get distracted by anything—” or anyone “—else.”

  Chapter Seven

  Chet eyed the dark-haired woman behind the lunch counter. Her name was True, but the whole town knew that wasn’t a description of her personality. True Barry could spin a lie faster than anybody in the county and usually did.

  The tall brunette had legs up to there and was movie-star gorgeous.

  Made a guy wonder what brought her to this remote valley in central Idaho. Was she on the run? Hiding out? Or had she come here because the male-female ratio in these parts ran in her favor?

  Not that she needed that advantage. There were plenty of men in Eden Valley interested in True. Chet wasn’t one of them. He wouldn’t even be in the diner, enduring her come-hither stare, except True knew something about Neal’s death. Chet meant to find out what it was.

  “What can I get for you, cowboy?”

  She set the coffeepot on the counter near his plate and leaned toward him. So close, he could see the tiny gold flecks in her eyes. Hazel eyes framed with long lashes.

  “You look troubled, Chet,” she said, loud enough for everyone in the diner to hear. “Maybe I can help somehow.” She lowered her voice to a nearly inaudible whisper. “Meet me behind the diner in ten minutes.”

  “Not interested, True,” he said—and meant it.

  “It’s about Neal, you idiot. Be there.”

  Flashing him another of her smiles, she straightened and walked off to pour coffee for some other customer, leaving Chet to wonder what he would find behind the diner.

  The cabin door was open. As Ian approached the deck, he heard music coming from inside. George Strait was singing that same tune from last night. The one they’d played during the Grange potluck.

  He couldn’t help smiling as he realized the melody had been haunting her, too. Enough that she’d put it on the stereo.

  Ian climbed the steps, careful not to make any sound. At the screen door, he stopped and looked in. Shayla sat in front of her computer, her back toward the door, her fingers tapping away on the keyboard. Clickity-clickity-clickity. She was a fast typist.

  He’d seen her in church this morning, but she’d arrived before him and was already seated with the Sheffield family—Ty, his parents and the rest of their children. The most Ian had been able to do was give Shayla a quick greeting.

  And so here he was, coming to her place on this Sunday afternoon. Last week he’d brought her a puppy. Today he’d brought a saddle horse.

  He rapped on the door. She typed a few more words, probably finishing an idea, then swiveled her chair. A look of surprise—or was it something else?—filled her eyes an instant before she rose to her feet.

  “Ian.”

  “Sorry for interrupting your work.”

  “It’s all right.” She crossed the room. “I was ready for a break. I’ve been at it ever since I got home from church. Something the pastor said in his sermon gave me an idea for my character.” She opened the screen door. “Would you like a glass of iced tea?”

  “Actually, I came over to see if you’d like to go for a ride.” He motioned behind him. “I brought a horse for you. Just in case.”

  “A horse?” She looked beyond him.

  She’d probably never
been on horseback. She was a greenhorn about most ranching matters, and he had to assume that included horses. But he didn’t care, one way or the other. Riding was only an excuse to be with her again.

  Shayla stepped onto the deck, careful to make certain Honey Girl made it through before letting the screen door swing shut.

  “Oh, Ian, what a beautiful animal. But I don’t know anything about horses or riding.”

  “Well, then, I’ll have to teach you.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Be glad to, if you’re willing.”

  “Oh, I’m willing. I’ve always wanted to learn to ride.” Her eyes twinkled with excitement. “I’ve just never had the opportunity.”

  “Then I’m happy to oblige. Come with me. I’ll introduce you to Pumpkin. She’s as gentle as a lamb. Easiest goin’ saddle horse on the place. Perfect for someone’s first ride.”

  “Pumpkin?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t name her.” He chuckled as they descended the steps, side by side.

  “Who did?”

  “Joanne.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry” She looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right, Shayla. I can talk about Jo.”

  They arrived at the spot where he had tethered the two horses. Ian took hold of the buckskin’s bridle and stroked her muzzle while looking into her intelligent dark brown eyes.

  “Pumpkin here was born in the middle of the night during one of the worst spring blizzards this valley’s seen. It was a difficult birth. We thought we were gonna lose the broodmare. Joanne and I were out in the barn the whole time.”

  He saw it all in his mind as clearly as if it had happened yesterday instead of over eleven years ago.

  “Then the storm snapped some power lines. We scrambled to light several lanterns just before Pumpkin arrived.”

  He remembered Joanne, kneeling on the stall floor, the collar of her coat turned up, her gloved hands resting on her thighs.

  “I guess it was the lantern light, but the filly was the brightest orange color we’d ever seen. Joanne said she looked like a pumpkin in a pumpkin patch. The name stuck.”

  “And her mother? The broodmare? Was she all right?”

  He smiled, liking the tenderheartedness he heard in her voice. “She pulled through. Gave birth to another half-dozen foals before she was put out to pasture.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Come over here,” he said, reaching for her arm and drawing her closer. Then he took her hand and placed it on Pumpkin’s neck. “Talk to her. Get acquainted.”

  “Hello, Pumpkin.” Shayla cautiously stroked the mare’s neck.

  “She’s a quarter horse. Eleven years old now. Fourteen hands tall.”

  “Fourteen hands?”

  “A hand is about four inches, and a horse’s height is measured from the withers.” He touched the ridge between the shoulder bones at the base of the mare’s neck. “From right here.”

  “How tall is your horse?”

  “Blue? He’s over sixteen hands.”

  Her gaze moved back and forth between the horses, comparing the two.

  For the next fifteen minutes or so, Ian continued his impromptu teaching session, acquainting her with the conformation of the horse.

  He was learning, too. Learning what an apt student Shayla was. Green, maybe, but bright. And particularly pretty in the golden afternoon sunlight that filtered through the treetops. Today, she smelled of vanilla rather than flowers. Like cookies baking in a warm kitchen.

  A shiver of awareness ran through Shayla. Her mouth dry, her heartbeat erratic, she turned to face Ian. For the briefest of moments, she saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes. Then it was gone.

  Much to her relief. Remember? She wasn’t interested in romance. Not with Ian or anyone else.

  “Ready to give it a try?” he asked.

  “Sure. I’m ready.”

  He glanced at her bare legs. “You’ll need to change out of those shorts and into some jeans. And some boots, too.”

  “I don’t own any boots. At least, not the cowboy variety.”

  “Well, then, the ride’ll have to wait. Not safe to ride in a saddle without shoes that have a good heel.”

  It’s for the best, she told herself. But what she felt was disappointment.

  “Tell you what,” Ian said. “You shop for those boots tomorrow when the store opens, and we’ll take a ride in the afternoon before you leave the ranch.”

  His smile, the look in his eyes, everything about him kept her from refusing. “Okay.”

  I’ve got no backbone, she decided after he’d bid her good day and mounted his gelding. No backbone at all.

  She lifted Honey into her arms before the puppy could follow the departing horses.

  “So much for my resolve. I didn’t make it twenty-four hours. Not a measly twenty-four hours.”

  She walked toward the cabin, her thoughts still on the tall, dark-haired man astride the gray horse. What she wouldn’t give to own a pair of Western boots. Why on earth hadn’t she bought herself a pair before now? She should have known she would need them. This was cowboy country.

  And oh, what a cowboy Ian was.

  She tried, unsuccessfully, to stop thinking of him, to chase his image from her mind.

  “Why did this happen to me now? I go for months and months, years even, without noticing a guy. Then I come up here to write and wham!”

  Honey whimpered, wriggling madly, trying to get free.

  “Big help you are.” She set the puppy down and watched her scamper through the underbrush, chasing a chipmunk.

  “Murder and mayhem,” she muttered. “I’ve got to remember why I’m here. I’ve got a novel to write.”

  She whistled for Honey, then took the puppy inside, returning to the computer, to Chet Morrison and his problems with True Barry.

  The next morning found Ian eager to get his chores done so he could give Shayla her next lesson. It was all he’d thought about last night before going to bed, and it was the first thought he’d had upon awakening.

  “Ty, I want you and Mick to ride over to Silver Ridge this morning.” Ian flipped the left stirrup over the saddle and tightened the cinch. “I need to know how the water’s holding up over there.”

  “The water? What makes you think there’d be a problem at Silver Ridge? Those water holes haven’t run dry in all the years you been running cattle there. Not even in the worst drought years.”

  He didn’t look up. “Something’s been nagging at me. Don’t know what exactly. Call it a hunch.” Call it your interest in Shayla Vincent would have been a more honest response. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Ty grunted. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

  True. He was the boss. But more important, the ride to Silver Ridge would keep Ty out until after six o’clock.

  Okay, he thought as he mounted a palomino gelding. So maybe it wasn’t fair, getting Ty as far away from Shayla as possible. But all was fair in love and war. Right?

  He whistled for his trusty collies, then rode south, following the trail between rolling pastureland and pine-covered mountainside. He would have preferred to remain at the house until Shayla arrived, but he had to locate and drive in some strays before he took the rest of the day off to spend with her.

  He grinned, imagining Shayla in a pair of Levi’s and a sleeveless Western shirt, the type the women’s shop on Main Street kept in stock. She would look real cute in those clothes. Come to think of it, she looked cute in those old cutoffs and baggy T-shirts of hers.

  His grin broadened. Exactly when was it, he wondered, that she’d gone from being odd to adorable?

  He laughed aloud before nudging his horse into a canter.

  The worst of the cleanup was behind Shayla. Once she got the master bedroom uncluttered, dusted and vacuumed and the master bath scoured, it wouldn’t be all that hard to keep the house tidy from week to week. Even cleaning only on Mondays
and Thursdays, as was her plan. From here on out, Ian’s mother could come for that visit, and he wouldn’t have to be afraid of disappointing her.

  Shayla set her cleaning supplies on the floor and made a quick survey of the bedroom. As with most of the other rooms in the house, she found an abundance of magazines, some several years old.

  “Doesn’t he throw anything away?”

  In addition to magazines, she discovered about a dozen volumes on animal husbandry. Books on cattle breeding, horse training, wildlife management, farming procedures. But what surprised her most was the oversize copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. She wouldn’t have thought Ian interested in the Bard.

  Maybe the book had belonged to Joanne.

  She turned and looked for a photograph of Ian’s wife. She wanted to see the woman he’d married. She wasn’t disappointed. A collection of framed photos were on the bureau. There was one of his parents; she could tell it was them because of the man’s striking resemblance to Ian. There was another of his parents with him and his sister when the children were small. There was a large photo of his sister and her family at the ocean. There was another of Ian on horseback.

  But it was the photograph of Joanne and Ian on their wedding day that Shayla reached for, her gaze fastened on the bride.

  Joanne looked young, her eyes full of excitement, innocence, anticipation and hope. She was tall and slender, beautiful with high cheekbones and delicately chiseled features. She was the type of woman who grew prettier with every passing year.

  In the photo, Ian stared at his bride with a look of love so profound, so intense, it made Shayla’s heart ache.

  No wonder he’d never married again. A love that strong must last forever.

  Suddenly she felt intrusive. It was wrong to look at this photo and wish for…

  Wish for what? That she was as tall and slender and beautiful as Joanne O’Connell? Well, that would never happen. Nor was it possible Joanne’s husband would one day look at Shayla in that same way.