Quincy: A Montana Bounty Hunters Story

by Devlin, Delilah

  “Miss Davis, here,” Quincy said, tilting his head at Tamara, “was in the wrong place at the wrong time—right outside the S&S when it happened. Some of the bikers thought she was with us.”

  The firefighter raised a hand and motioned to someone behind them.

  Tamara turned to see a police officer moving toward them. His gaze went from Quincy, to Tamara, and then Miss Gracie, and his eyebrows rose.

  “Now, don’t look at me like that,” the old woman groused. “You’ve seen me in my curlers plenty of times.”

  He held up a hand. “Just didn’t expect to see you here, Aunt Grace.” His gaze cut to Tamara and Quincy. “You know these folks?”

  “Tamara and I work together,” Miss Gracie said.

  He glanced at Tamara. “I’ve seen you around.” Then he looked at Quincy.

  “I’m a bounty hunter out of Bear Lodge,” Quincy said, his gaze direct.

  “I’m guessing you have a story to tell.”

  “Not a story, but we might want to get somewhere she can sit down before we talk,” Quincy said, tilting his head toward Tamara.

  Gracie gripped Tamara’s hand. “I walked around back. The bunker doesn’t look like it was touched.”

  “Won’t do us any good,” Tamara said. “The junction box was in the house. We don’t have power.”

  Gracie’s gaze went back to Quincy. “Don’t you worry about me. When you get things sorted, we can talk.”

  Quincy and Tamara followed the officer to the PD’s tiny station house. After they were given cups of coffee and herded into a conference room, Quincy described the events that had led to the house fire, including being shot at by the orange-bearded man.

  Officer Wilbur Cummings made notes then laid down his pen. “Sounds like Pug McPherson. He’s a nasty character, and part of the same club as Walton. I won’t be surprised if he’s behind this. He’s got a long rap sheet and did a stint in prison for vehicular homicide—he ran over a drug dealer he thought had cheated him. I wouldn’t put arson past him. First firefighters on the scene said they smelled gasoline.” His gaze went to Tamara who had remained quiet. “Miz Davis, do you have insurance on your home?”

  She nodded. “I’ll have to get in touch with Don Langley. He’ll have a copy of my policy in his office.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your loss. How will I be able to contact you?”

  Quincy raised a finger. “She’ll be with me.” He dug into his wallet and handed the officer his card. “You can leave a message for me at the office number or call my cell. We still have to retrieve her car. Her phone’s with it.”

  Officer Cummings nodded, and then they all rose.

  Once back inside Quincy’s vehicle, she noted that the sky was now filled with gray clouds. She felt numb as she buckled herself in. When he started the engine and reached for the gear stick, she touched his hand. “You’re not responsible for me, Quincy. You don’t have to do this.”

  Quincy brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I’m sorry about your home. I know you’re going to miss the things inside it, but this doesn’t have to be a terrible thing. Let me take care of you. Let me help. We both wanted more time together, now we’ll have that. It’s just a bitch that an asshole like Pug McPherson is the one who made that happen.”

  She sniffed and hiccupped, and then she felt her face crumpling. All morning, she’d fought to keep it together. Nearly everything she’d owned, almost every picture she’d had of her mom and dad had been inside that house. Everything she’d accumulated in her thirty years was gone. She hid her face in her hands and cried.

  The door beside her opened and suddenly arms surrounded her. Quincy held her against his chest and stroked her hair, giving her forehead a kiss now and then as he comforted her. When her tears dried up, she accepted a napkin he dug out of his glove box and mopped the moisture streaming from her eyes and nose. When she could meet his gaze again, she said, “You’re pretty good at this.”

  Quincy gave her a gentle smile. In her mind, he’d never been handsomer, with his green eyes crinkling at the corners, and his expression so tender she almost started to cry again.

  But she’d had enough of tears. “So, I guess I’m going home with you.”

  “Guess you are,” he said, nodding. “You can take another nap while we drive. Don’t worry about anything. Today, you’re in my hands. Let me carry this burden.”

  She wondered when her inner feminist had disappeared on her. His words were a balm she sorely needed. “I can barely think about what comes next…”

  “Then don’t. I work with folks who know how to make things happen. I’m pretty good myself at picking up the pieces and starting over. You don’t have to do this alone. And today, you need to let someone else worry for you.”

  When he began to move out of her door, she reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt then pulled it to bring him closer.

  Once again, he knew just what she needed and gave her one of his soft, sweet kisses, brushing over her mouth and cheek. “That what you needed, baby?”

  Tamara gave him a smile, while inside admitting something she’d known all along. She was in love with Quincy James.

  Chapter 8

  Quincy knew his place was a fixer-upper—which he’d failed, so far, to fix up. He’d had great intentions when he’d toured the little house with the pushy real estate agent, nodding over the “good bones” of the place, but the fact was, a demolition team was needed to make it look like something a woman would ever conceive of as a home.

  The exterior was in need of a thorough pressure wash and a fresh coat of paint. The grass was patchy, and the bushes overgrown. Only the tall trees in the front and back yard, a mix of blue juniper, Norway spruce, poplars, and aspens, offered any bright spots to his yard. Looking at his house through the front windshield, he hoped she wasn’t disappointed.

  “You have trees,” she said and gave him a smile. “When the leaves turn on those aspens, I bet they’re gorgeous.”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve only been in the house a few months.” He cut the engine. “Why don’t you come inside? It’s not much. Not yet, anyway.”

  “A work in progress?” Her expression brightened instantly. “Maybe I can help with that, seeing as I’ll have plenty of time on my hands.”

  Surprised by her enthusiasm, he stared. “Don’t feel like you have to earn your keep.”

  “I like keeping busy. Since it’s going to take some time to find a job, I’ll need something to do. How do you feel about color?”

  Color? Quincy didn’t answer, but apparently, she didn’t need one because she exited the SUV and headed straight toward the porch. Her gaze snagged on the formerly white lattice that stretched from under the edge of the porch to the ground. He could almost see her mentally adding a note.

  Quincy unlocked the door and waved a hand for her to precede him.

  She entered slowly, her gaze dropping to the dull wood floor then rising to the popcorn ceiling before scanning around the living room. Most of his furniture was rented, accented by a few junkyard finds. He didn’t know why he felt nervous. Decorating wasn’t in his wheelhouse of talents.

  “Goody,” she said, “there’s so much to do.” Then her eyes widened, and she gave him a quick glance and a little smile. “Sorry. That didn’t come out right.”

  He grinned. “No, I think you’ve got it just right. I bought the place for a song, because it needs so much work. I just haven’t had enough downtime to tackle anything.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind,” she said, moving closer to him, “you could set a budget. I’ll assess what needs to be done first and come up with a list of things I think I can do.”

  He sighed and reached for her hips, pulling her body close enough their bellies met. “I don’t want you feeling like you have to do this.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, I know. You told me so last night,” she said, rubbing against him.

  He certainly had—right before he�
�d gone down on her. “You really want to do this? Hell, you haven’t seen the rest of the place.”

  She leaned away from him to stare into the kitchen. “I see old beadboard inside the kitchen door. And it’s painted a godawful green. Do you think I can eat in a room with green wainscoting?”

  Eyes narrowing, he said, “No purple. Or pink.” He tugged her hair. “Only place pink belongs is in your hair.”

  She waggled her eyebrows. “That leaves a lot of colors up for discussion.”

  He sighed and moved his hands to the small of her back. “Make yourself happy, Tamara. Whatever color accomplishes that, I’m good with it.” And that was true. He wanted her to make whatever changes made her feel as though this house was hers, because he wanted that to be true.

  After checking out the springs in the mattress, Tamara went to work in the kitchen, hunting through his pantry and cupboards for things she could throw together for a meal. They’d had to throw away the perishables they’d brought to her house, but she was happy to find a bottle of spaghetti sauce and a box of noodles. She defrosted hamburger she found in the freezer and fried it in a pan before adding it to the sauce she’d doctored with onion and garlic salts. The man needed real spices. Onions and garlic weren’t meant to be sprinkled.

  While she cooked, he headed out to the porch to make several calls. She knew he did it out of her hearing to save her some stress, but she was okay now. Something about being here, at his very sincere invitation, went a long way toward making her feel like she wasn’t taking advantage of his generous nature. The fact he was letting her make some changes to his house gave her a sense of purpose, as well as hope that she could show him she could be a part of his life.

  Still, she cautioned herself to go slowly. Be subtle. Smothering a man in domesticity was a surefire way to make him nervous. Or so she’d read. She eyed the onion salt. Should she add more so the sauce didn’t taste perfect?

  Just then, he came into the kitchen. “Smells good.”

  “I found some things. Even some frozen garlic bread.” She wagged a finger. “We both have to eat it.”

  “Gotcha,” he said with a flash of white teeth. “We can grocery shop tomorrow, if you like. And we’ll need to find you some clothes.”

  She glanced down at her outfit that was far from fresh now. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I have money. I promise.” She didn’t have enough money in the bank for a shopping spree, but once the insurance company paid, she would. Moving to the notepad on the counter, she added a note: Call Don Langley.

  Quincy stepped next to her and flipped through the pages she’d already filled. “Wow. You did this while you were cooking dinner?”

  She slipped an arm around his waist. “I’m a woman. Therefore, I’m a born multi-tasker.”

  “I won’t argue that yours is the superior sex. I can bear witness.”

  She elbowed his side. “Set the table.”

  Their meal was more light-hearted than she’d imagined possible. She offered a ridiculous version of her “vision” for his house, while he offered groans and laughter.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, as he held a hand against his belly after a long bout of laughing. “You can paint the beadboard in alternating rainbow colors, if I get to color your hair the same way.”

  Giggling, she held out her hand. “Deal.”

  Quincy held onto her hand and pulled her up so he could kiss her across the small table. “See? Aren’t you glad you came here?”

  “I am…” she said, her gaze sliding away.

  “But?”

  She drew a deep breath before raising her gaze. Her expression a little sad. “I don’t want you to be afraid to hurt my feelings…if this doesn’t work out.”

  He gave her a solemn nod, biting back an automatic, Never gonna happen.

  A knock on the door sounded through the house. They both turned their heads toward it.

  “You expecting company?” she asked.

  “You stay here. I’ll get it.” He wasn’t going to warn her about what was about to happen. She might flee to the bedroom.

  He strode toward the front door, paused to look through the peephole, then opened it, smiling at the ladies from Montana Bounty Hunters. “Come in. She’s in the kitchen.”

  Lacey turned him and pushed him in front of her. “I smell Italian. Did we give you enough time to finish eating?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you can do the dishes.”

  Quincy went to the kitchen, the three ladies following on his heels. Tamara was standing at the sink rinsing plates for the dishwasher. “Dry your hands, baby,” he said. “Let me introduce you to—”

  “Oh my God!” Tamara’s eyes widened as she quickly used a hand towel then approached the group. “You’re Lacey,” she said, pointing at Dagger’s partner, “and you’re Reaper’s wife, Carly, the writer. I saw you on TV. And I read your first bounty hunter romance—I loved it! And you’re Jamie!”

  The women shared smiles while they shook hands.

  “What are you all doing here?” she asked.

  Lacey reached for Tamara’s hand. “Let’s talk in the living room. Quincy has man-work to finish up in here.”

  Quincy felt partly relieved and partly disappointed he didn’t get to watch the women “solve” some of Tamara’s problems. When he’d called Lacey earlier, he’d only meant to ask her where to take Tamara shopping, but Lacey had wanted a complete rundown of everything Tamara needed. “Your woman can’t go around in your workout clothes. And the poor thing doesn’t even have one tube of lipstick to her name. Leave it to me.”

  No sooner had he hung up after talking to her than he’d gotten calls from Brian, who promised to have Tamara’s car delivered to his house by morning, and then Reaper who’d asked if he thought Tamara could pitch in at the office until she got back on her feet.

  For the first time, Quincy felt like he’d truly been accepted into the MBH family. Whistling to himself, he began stacking dishes into the dishwasher. Two plates. Two glasses. Two sets of silverware. Then his mind wandered, and he imagined stacking three or four.

  The idea made him freeze in place—and not from alarm. No, the idea appealed. He wondered if he should make sure she decorated the spare bedroom in a soft color—but still not pink.

  Lacey drew Tamara to the sofa while the other two ladies returned to their cars. They returned quickly with large shopping bags.

  “First things first,” Carly said, pulling out a bottle of vodka and a liter bottle of orange juice. “Screwdrivers!”

  While Carly poured their drinks into the plastic cups she’d also brought, Lacey and Carly’s gazes fixed on Tamara.

  “I love your hair,” Lacey said, reaching out to touch Tamara’s pink streak.

  “Thank you.”

  “Hubby told me how you two met,” Carly said, her eyes sparkling. “I can’t imagine how scary that must have been. First, having to work on that thug, and then getting locked up with another big scary dude.”

  “Bet Quincy’s got him some moves,” Lacey said, arching her eyebrows.

  She looked so expectant for the juicy details Tamara felt mean withholding them. She glanced toward the kitchen door to make sure he wasn’t anywhere near it then whispered, “I can’t believe he let me tie him to my chair.”

  “Must have been a dream come true,” Carly murmured then chuckled. “How did he manage to get himself free?”

  “Well,” Tamara blushed. “I shouldn’t say…”

  “You have to now,” Jamie drawled, leaning into the circle.

  “Well, he got hard and looked like he was in pain, all constricted, you know. He couldn’t…adjust himself.”

  “Did you offer?” Lacey whispered, her lips stretching wide.

  When she nodded, the ladies hooted.

  It was time to turn the ladies away from the dirty details. “I’ve only seen your guys on TV,” Tamara said, “but are they all really as handsome and big as the cameras make them seem?”

 
; Carly smiled. “Mine’s the biggest. Built like a Viking god.”

  Lacey wrinkled her nose. “He’s the tallest. Dagger’s got the most muscle.” Then she waggled her eyebrows, intimating his bulk resided farther south, too.

  Jamie sighed. “Sky’s a well-made man. Not as tall or as musclebound as the other two, but equally well-endowed.”

  Lacey shrieked. “Jamie! I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Why? I may be your boss, and married now, but I’ve got skin in this discussion, too.”

  The three ladies’ attention homed on Tamara.

  She squirmed in her seat. They’d been so forthcoming, and they’d bragged all over their sexy men, so how could she not defend Quincy’s physique? “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven the first time I saw him naked.”

  Carly lifted her drink. “To the men of Bounty Hunters of the Northwest!”

  When they set their glasses on the table, the women drew the other shopping bags in front of them.

  “We know you lost everything,” Jamie began, “so, we went through our closets, looking for anything that might fit—”

  “Quincy said you had Carly’s curves and my height,” Lacey interrupted, bouncing in her seat, “so we had a place to start. I’m a little too skinny to share my clothes, but I have beauty products coming out of my ears. Between my beauty vlog and the videos I do for the MBH website, companies send me all kinds of products to try.” She handed over the bag. “There are shampoos, conditioners, hair masks, face masks, razors, brushes, combs, a blow-dryer, curling iron, makeup—including some really nice eyeshadow and blush palettes. I think I have everything you’ll need for the short term inside.”

  Tamara glanced inside the bag and recognized a Tarte palette she’d had in her bathroom cabinet. She plucked it out. “I had this one! I loved it!” She leaned toward the pretty blonde to give her a hug.

  Carly held out her bag. “I have some things I think you won’t have to hem—like midi-skirts, leggings, sweaters, and blouses. I also have some sports bras in there, since I couldn’t be sure we’d wear the same cup size. And at the bottom is a Coach purse. I don’t know why I bought it. It’s about five years old, but I never use it, so it’s in great shape.”