Finding Hope (Nugget Romance 2)

by Stacy Finz

  “Cody wants cereal.”

  “For supper?”

  Justin shrugged. “How come you’re taking the charity case to dinner instead of Lauren?”

  Clay cocked a brow and glared. “You want to rephrase that?”

  “Why are you taking Miss Mathews out instead of Lauren?”

  “Because Miss Mathews is my friend.”

  “Isn’t Lauren your friend?”

  He pondered Justin’s question. Lauren was beautiful, clever, and adventurous in bed. But he didn’t consider her a friend. They flirted and made small talk about nothing deeper than the weather. Come to think of it, friendship had never been part of Clay and Jen’s relationship, either. They’d fought and fucked. That was the sum total of their partnership.

  Emily . . . he could tell her anything. His concerns about the boys. His marriage with Jennifer and about her affair. He liked the way she listened. Really listened, sometimes offering advice and other times just being a good ear. He’d never had that kind of relationship with a woman before. Clay chalked it up to the fact that he didn’t want to sleep with her.

  Turning to Justin, who had sprawled out on his bed, Clay said, “It’s a different kind of friendship.”

  “Because you like Lauren as a girlfriend?” Justin emphasized “girl.”

  “I guess you can say that.” It was as good an explanation as any, Clay supposed. “Will you guys be okay for a couple of hours alone?”

  “Seriously, Dad?”

  “Okay. Take care of Cody. You know how nervous he gets when I’m gone.”

  “Yeah, he’s a freak.”

  Clay threw his wet towel at Justin, jogged down the stairs, and shouted goodbye to Cody. When he got to Emily’s she was already waiting on the front porch, swaying back and forth on her new rocking chair in that same black dress she’d worn to Shep’s funeral. The one that looked so good on her.

  It pleased him that she’d dressed up, even though this wasn’t a date date. Nonetheless, it was a celebration.

  “Hey.” He got out of the truck, opened the passenger door, and helped her in. “Hungry?”

  “I could eat,” she said. “Nice boots.”

  “Nice dress.”

  He put the truck in gear and turned on the radio. A Della James song came on and Emily groaned.

  Clay looked at her askance. “You don’t like country music?”

  “I like it just fine,” she said. “But I get enough of her voice on the telephone.”

  He chuckled and changed the station to classic rock. “When I was a kid that’s all my father played. Hank Williams. Lefty Frizzell. Merle Haggard. They were all staples in my house. What about in yours?”

  She laughed. “My mother loves Édith Piaf. She used to play “La Vie en Rose” over and over again. It drove me nuts. Drew was into Creedence Clearwater Revival.”

  She never talked about her ex and it made him curious. “Creedence, huh? Was he older than you?” He estimated that Emily was about his age—a little young for CCR.

  “A few years,” she said. “He liked Dylan and Springsteen too.”

  “Kind of a folky guy, then?”

  “As much as a Silicon Valley lawyer can be, I suppose.”

  He watched her smile as if she were caught up in an old memory. “So he’s remarried now?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, but didn’t elaborate. Clay had ascertained during their short acquaintance that Emily wasn’t much of a sharer. Typically, he wasn’t one either. But with her he found it easy to open up.

  “So what do you listen to?” he asked, remembering that he’d seen an iPod in her kitchen.

  “When I cook, Motown, Otis Redding, Sam Cooke. I also like classical music.” The R & B surprised him, but not so much the classical.

  The square was full of cars, but Clay found a spot in front of the restaurant, parked, and helped her out of the truck. They walked into the Ponderosa, which was doing a pretty brisk business for a Monday evening. Earl Miller from the feed store waved from the bar and Mariah sat them in a booth in the back corner.

  “How’s the book going?” she asked Emily, handing them both menus.

  “It’s going—the French one better than Della’s,” Emily said, and let out a tired sigh. “How’s Sophie?”

  “She’s getting rounder.”

  “When’s her due date?”

  “Not until December,” Mariah said. “Can I get you drinks?”

  “I’ll take a Sierra Nevada,” Clay said. “You want wine, Emily?”

  “Something red.” She perused the menu. “Whatever you think, Mariah.”

  When Mariah went to get their drinks, Clay took a quick look around the room. People seemed to be minding their own business. No whispering behind hands or nosy stares. Maybe, just maybe, Owen had kept his big mouth shut. Or better, the townsfolk knew and had decided to let poor Emily live in peace.

  “This place is a license to mint money,” Emily said, glancing at the crowd. “In the Bay Area, restaurants are typically closed Mondays because it’s such a slow night. Not here, though.”

  “It helps that there’s no competition.” Clay leaned across the table. “Why don’t you open a restaurant here? Hell, woman, you could cook the pants off Tater.”

  “Running a restaurant is not for me,” she said. “I like doing the cookbooks, especially developing the recipes.”

  “Why don’t you do your own?” he asked.

  “They’re a hard sell. You have to pretty much be a celebrity chef, or a celebrity, to get a contract. Although the other day at the farmers’ market I got an idea for one that I might pitch to my agent. First, I have to finish the projects I already have.”

  “What is the idea?” he asked, liking the way her face got all passionate when she talked about her job.

  “A regional cookbook—dishes from the Sierra mountains. And I’d like all the proceeds to go to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”

  “Ah, that’s nice, Emily.”

  “I’d do a whole section on McCreedy beef.” She beamed.

  “Yeah? Well, then I’d line up to buy that book.”

  Mariah returned with their drinks and took their orders. When she left, Emily asked, “Did you always want to be a cattle rancher?”

  “Yup. It’s in my blood. Ranching is my family’s heritage since the gold rush. It’ll be the legacy I leave my boys. Hopefully they’ll take it over, but if they don’t . . .”

  “They will,” she assured him. “I don’t know Justin very well. But with the way Cody brings me milk and eggs, he strikes me as a natural-born farmer.”

  “Rancher,” Clay corrected, and winked at her. “Justin doesn’t like to admit it, but he likes the horses. Next year he’s signed up for the high school’s rodeo team. Cody’s doing 4-H.”

  Their food came and Emily cut into her tri-tip. “Do you miss the flying much?”

  “Yeah,” he said, although it wasn’t something he liked to talk about. People shouldn’t enjoy the notion of killing other people, which unlike a lot of fighter pilots, Clay didn’t. However, he did miss flying at Mach 1.8. He had three sweet planes, but none of them could remotely touch that kind of speed. “It’s hard to explain, but my life as a fighter pilot and an aviation officer had become very much an extension of who I was. My whole identity was wrapped up in it. When you walk away, you feel lost. Luckily, I had a second life to come back to.”

  She nodded, her eyes relaying that she fully understood. It was odd, because he hadn’t told anyone that, not even Rhys. They finished their meals without incident. No one had even given Emily a sideways glance. That is if you didn’t count the yahoo sitting at the corner of the bar, checking out her legs.

  Clay paid the check, despite Emily’s insistence that they at least go halves. Call him old-fashioned, but not in this lifetime would he let a woman pay for dinner.

  “Hey.” Donna Thurston waylaid them on the way to the door. “You two having dinner together? That’s nice. How come I neve
r see you at the Bun Boy?”

  “What are you talking about?” Emily scolded. “Every time I’m in town I get a soft-serve dipped in chocolate. I’m addicted to the damn things.”

  Clay pinched her waist. “Yeah, where you putting it?”

  Donna raised her brows at them. “Just make sure to give my little frosty equal time. You hear?”

  On their way back to the ranch, he couldn’t help but ask, “You ever think of remarrying?”

  She let out a shaky sigh filled with discomfort. “I was lucky enough to have one great love. That’s enough for me.”

  Bullshit, he wanted to tell her. First off, it would be a travesty for a nice woman like Emily to spend her life alone. Secondly . . . secondly. Well, he didn’t have a secondly. But that talk of her already having had her one great love—which by the way was a load of crap—just didn’t sit right with him. No, it didn’t sit right at all.

  Truth be told, it pissed him off. He didn’t know why it pissed him off, but it did.

  And that’s the way he left her at the door. Pissed off and confused as hell. Because why should he care whether Emily Mathews wanted to remarry? Or that she considered her ex-husband her one great love?

  Chapter 15

  “You’re back.” Lina jumped up from the reservation desk to greet Griffin as he trudged into the Lumber Baron, carrying his duffel bag.

  “Yep. You miss me?” He’d been gone three days to meet with his father in the central part of the state. Griff had really wanted to hate the man, but he’d left the Wigluk Nation more confused than ever.

  “I did,” Lina said.

  That’s what he liked about the girl. No games. No pretext. She liked him and didn’t try to hide it. Of course, in a few years, when she became more experienced with men, that would probably change. She’d learn how to play hard-to-get and all those other feminine games that bugged the hell out of him.

  He gave her an innocent peck on the cheek, noticing that she had on another one of her pretty sundresses. This one shorter than her others. “You held my room, right?”

  “Of course—you paid for it.”

  “I miss anything around here?” he asked, looking at the stairs longingly. He’d been on the road for hours.

  “Not a thing. Maddy took the day off, so I’ve got desk duty until two. Then my relief comes and I’m free.” She gazed at him imploringly with big brown eyes.

  He pretended to miss the obvious hint. “I’m beat, gonna get in a nap.” Before she could say more, Griffin headed up the stairs to his room.

  The bed was neatly made and the drapes had been drawn, drenching the room in sunshine. Before heading south, he’d sent out a pile of clothes for laundering. The garments had been folded and stacked on top of the dresser. He tugged off his harness boots, placed them next to his tennis shoes in the closet, and wandered into the bathroom. New soaps, shampoo bottles, and lotions had been set out, and the paper hanging over the toilet roll had been folded into a crisp point.

  Although a man could get used to the orderliness of such a life, Griffin was growing pretty tired of it. Sure, the Lumber Baron was just as homey as it was elegant, but he still longed for his own place. Somewhere where he didn’t feel guilty about slinging wet towels over a chair.

  He brushed his teeth and gazed into the mirror at his red eyes. The grit from the ride had made them dry. Griffin reached into the drawer where he kept his toiletries, found a bottle of Visine, and dripped a few drops into each eye. He stripped and took a hot shower, letting the multi-sprayers wash away the road grime. From the heap of clean laundry, he grabbed a pair of boxers and put them on.

  After a nap, he’d think about his father’s proposal and how he’d shot it down. But even as his eyes shut, Griffin couldn’t help remembering the imposing and dignified Manning Moore. The tribal chairman had been damned impressive. At sixty, he had a full head of hair that hit his shoulders, dark eyes that missed nothing, and a build very much like Griff’s—maybe a skosh taller. But it had been his manner that most captivated Griffin. He was confident without being arrogant. And what he’d done for the tribe, turning a run-down, impoverished reservation into a multibillion-dollar enterprise, was no small feat. In addition to a posh casino-resort with a championship golf course, the Wigluks farmed, made wine, and pressed their own olives into virgin olive oil, which they sold in gourmet shops across the country.

  Off the reservation, the Ramsey band had invested in everything from car dealerships and real estate to pharmaceutical companies and high-tech startups. Even Morris would be impressed with the way Manning had pulled the tribe up by its bootstraps and taught it to stand on its own. The reservation now had a first-rate clinic, an excellent elementary school and preschool, and made hefty donations to the area’s public services.

  Griff would be lying to say that the man didn’t intrigue him. But his loyalties would always lie with his late mother, who had loved and raised him the best she knew how.

  That was his last thought as sleep overtook him. Not even two hours later, a rustling noise awoke him. Griffin propped himself up on both elbows, trying to make out the shadow in the middle of his room. But with the curtains shut it was too dark to see anything but a small shape. Reaching for the bedside lamp to use as a weapon, he quickly flicked on the light. His hand relaxed immediately, but he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Lina stood there in nothing but a push-up bra and a tiny scrap of lace that barely covered her privates. Her sundress lay in a puddle on the floor.

  Griffin tried to force himself to look away, but he couldn’t. She was spilling out of those frilly cups and all that toned olive skin had his eyes locked on her.

  “What the hell are you doing?” It came out more as a croak than a reprimand.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” she said, smiling, showing that damn dimple.

  He gathered an extra blanket over his waist in hopes of hiding the tenting going on under there. Not easy to do, since Griff was pretty well-endowed. “You surprised me all right. Now put your dress back on.”

  “Don’t you like it?” She started to walk closer, giving him a better view of how little those panties covered between her long, lean legs.

  “Lina, put the damn dress back on.”

  She started to giggle and got into the bed with him. The next thing he knew she’d lifted his hands and put them on her breasts, snuggling closer.

  “Goddamn it! Stop!” He said it harsher than he’d meant to, but a man could only take so much. At this point, no one would blame him for not being responsible.

  “I thought we could . . .” Lina faltered, looking somewhat less uninhibited than she had a few minutes ago. “You know . . . do it . . . before I go away to school . . . so you could be my first.”

  “Oh Jesus.” Griffin turned his face into the pillow. “Lina, your first should be with your boyfriend, someone you have a relationship with.”

  “But . . . I thought we kinda did,” she said, trying to cover herself with the blanket.

  “Well, we don’t. I’m friggin’ eight years older than you.”

  Her pretty face grew red and a tear trickled down her cheek, making Griff feel like a heel. “Don’t cry. I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”

  “If you were really attracted to me, you’d want to do it, no matter what,” she said, choking on a sob. “I’ve made a total idiot of myself.”

  He reached for her hand and guided it to his massive hard-on. “Does that feel like I’m not attracted to you?”

  Her eyes grew wide and much to Griffin’s surprise she kept her hand there, touching his penis on top of his underwear.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Are you trying to kill me?” Griff near shouted. “Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

  “Of c-course,” she stuttered, further convincing Griffin that he was dealing with a child—even if she was a beautiful, sexy, intelligent child. And a sensitive one, because she’d started to bawl.

  “Why are you cryi
ng?” Despite the foolhardiness of it, he continued to let her mindlessly stroke him. She was clumsy, but mercy alive, did it feel good.

  “Because you don’t want me.” Her voice trembled, and he removed her hand before she made him come. “You’ve never even kissed me.”

  He could at least do that. A kiss was a minor infraction. Griffin covered her mouth with his, first tasting her lips, then finding her tongue. It lasted longer than he intended, but her mouth, warm and delicious, made him want to devour her. The fact that she was nearly naked, her pert breasts pressed against his chest, wasn’t exactly helping Griff put the brakes on.

  When he finally pulled away, she moaned for more. So he gave it to her, dipping his fingers under the elastic waist of her teeny underwear, feeling her wetness. With the other hand, he unfastened her bra, freeing those gorgeous tits. For a little thing, she was built like a brick house. He sucked on her dark distended nipples, losing himself and any decency he had left.

  “Lina, you ever have an orgasm?” he whispered into her ear.

  She ground against his hand and he gingerly slipped one finger inside her. Oh God, was she tight. “No . . . not with someone else.”

  “I could give you one of those without taking your virginity.” It would be the death of him, but at least he’d go a partial gentleman.

  “How?” she said against his lips, slipping off her panties to give him better access.

  “You’ll see.”

  “Can I give you one too?”

  Sweet Jesus. Before this day was over, the girl would undo him. “Let’s focus on you first,” he said, continuing to fondle her breasts. God, they were firm and so freakin’ sensitive. “Lina, did anyone see you come up here?”

  “No.” Her mouth folded into a pout. “Are you embarrassed to be with me?”

  “Of course not.” He just valued his life. “But your brother would shoot me if he knew, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.”

  The demanding little wench ignored him, saying, “Take off your shorts so I can see you.”

  He took them off, pulled her to the edge of the bed where he could kneel between her legs, and stroked her with his thumb.