He dropped his backpack to the weedy gravel between the rails and shrugged out of his heavy Army Surplus jacket to spread it out for her. “After you.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I don’t think so. I saw that movie where the kids get run over by a freight train.”
His smile connected with his eyes in a way that made Mia want to smile, too. “There hasn’t been a train on these rails for forty-plus years. According to Louise Jenkins, this spur belonged to a mining company that went broke when the copper gave out. Some enterprising soul tried to revive it as a tourist gig, but that never picked up any steam.”
His lopsided grin made her snicker. “Lame pun.”
He touched his heart as if wounded. “Now, I definitely need cocoa.”
He dropped to a graceful squat and positioned his trim, athletic-looking butt—which she’d noticed earlier that morning, despite the baggy yoga pants—atop one rail. Once he was settled, he folded his legs Indian style and reached for the small white sack Sage had given him.
His obvious comfort in his own skin made her envious—something she hated to admit. Her disconnect with her body had started years before her cancer diagnosis and treatment. Fourteen years to be exact. She and Edward, both Catholics, had been employing the so-called Rhythm Method when they got pregnant with Emilee. Mia’s body had been out-of-sync ever since.
She knelt on his jacket since she was wearing a skirt and folded her knees to one side in a ladylike fashion her mother would have condoned. Mom. Cakes. The polite social event she was missing for no excuse whatsoever. “I don’t have long, you know.”
He handed her one of the paper cups. “These should be cooled just enough. I come here once a week with my cocoa.”
She snapped off the lid and lifted the rim to her lips. The lush warm smell made her taste buds gush. Her hand trembled a bit. Cocoa was made with sugar. Sugar fed cancer cells… Stop, a voice in her mind ordered. Her mother’s voice. Just enjoy for once.
She took a sip. “Mmm,” she murmured, the cup’s rim still touching her bottom lip.
She closed her eyes and drank more—a long, satisfying gulp of warm joy.
She heard a clicking sound and looked at Ryker, who had his camera to his eye. “Sorry,” he said, still clicking. “The purity of satisfaction on your face was too perfect to pass up. Sage would pay me big bucks to let her use this image in her advertising.”
His grin was so self-satisfied and unapologetic she wanted to yank the camera out of his hands, but in a way he reminded her of Hunter, who used to be that confident of his gifts, that happy when something he drew or made from a tub of Legos turned out. That was before he escaped into video games to avoid having to deal with his imploding family. She missed that look so much she could cry.
Ryker distracted her, though, with a throaty, masculine chortle. “I almost forgot your test.”
“What kind of test?”
“You’ll see.” He stretched out his arms, fingers linked, like some kind of warm-up. The sunlight created something freakishly like glitter highlights in his mop of curls. The guy was handsome enough to be in a freakin’ TV commercial, she thought. He had the kind of face you couldn’t help liking and trusting. “Hello, Ma’am. Might I interest you in something delicious but so bad for your body you may as well just throw in the towel? Trust me, you’ll love it.”
He set his camera aside and scooted forward. His butt must barely be touching the iron rail, she thought, resisting the urge to look. She hadn’t had sex—or even thought about sex—for so long she’d begun to wonder if her surgeon removed her libido along with all her other body parts. Most days she felt like a neutered cat, but, suddenly, seeing a handsome younger man balancing on the balls of his feet in a full squat while tempting her with some special, sinful treat, turned her into a cougar.
He unrolled the crimped bag, then reached inside with his long, beautiful fingers.
Who notices a man’s fingers, for God’s sake? she thought.
Horny, hormonal women with no social life.
“Close your eyes.”
“Again? I don’t think so. Standing on Main Street with people around was one thing, but you could have an ax in your backpack for all I know.”
His roar of laughter triggered a funny lightening inside her. She hadn’t laughed in too long. At what point had she turned hard and dry and humorless? No wonder her kids hated her.
Tears pricked behind her lids. She set her cup on one of the rails and leaned forward, too. Motioning for him to get on with what he had planned. “Just do it.”
He didn’t respond right away.
Nervous, she licked her lips. “Come on. I don’t have all day.”
“Open up.”
She swallowed first, the noise loud in her ears. Could he read her nervousness? She felt a blush creep into her cheeks.
Something small and soft was deposited carefully on her tongue. She closed her mouth and tasted. Flavors exploded so vividly she couldn’t quite register every aspect. The contrast of savory and sweet, smooth and chunky confused her brain’s identification centers. “Am I supposed to tell you what this is?” she said as well as she could manage without her saliva glands tripping her up.
“Yes.”
She kept her eyes closed so she could concentrate. “Caramel.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Uh-huh. Easy.”
“Dark chocolate. My favorite.”
For some reason, he groaned and muttered, “Really?”
“I’m pretty sure the tiny bit of crunch was sea salt.”
“Correct.” His tone was that of a teacher who expected her to fail.
Mia Zabrinski didn’t fail. She’d passed every test she’d ever taken…except for one—a mammogram.
She swished her tongue around, testing for the missing flavor. “Chili. Habanero, to be exact.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. His wicked grin told her she’d gotten it wrong. “Close. Well, technically, I’d have given it to you if you’d left it at pepper. But Sage calls these Kick Starters. She’s been beta testing them for a week and finally settled on chipotle.”
The instant he said the word she tasted the lingering hint of smoke that had been masked by the rich warmth of the chocolate.
“Damn. You’re right.”
Their gazes met and held.
His eyes intrigued her, challenged her to go deeper and find out more about him. A foolish waste of time. The guy lived in a stupid tent. Winter was coming. He wouldn’t be sticking around for long. He was leaving. Not soon enough for her to get her basement in, but soon.
A fact, which, a voice in her head reasoned, made him perfect for a rebound fling.
Once the word “fling” lodged in her brain she couldn’t unthink it. She’d been with two men in her life. First her high school boyfriend who moved away their senior year and lasted about three letters and half a dozen phone calls before he broke up with her, and then she’d made the mistake of falling head over heels for her twin brother’s college roommate and best friend, Edward. Her college lover. Her husband. The narcissistic dilettante who abandoned her when she needed him most.
Mia didn’t like it when people—especially strangers—invaded her space. Ryker’s face was closer than she normally tolerated, but she didn’t pull back. She couldn’t. His gaze seemed to look past the superficial aspects of her hair, her face, her features, to see into the depths of her soul to the damaged, brittle woman terrified to re-engage with life.
The last thing she needed was a man. A man who wanted something from her.
He wants my land, the lawyer in her thought.
He wants my body, the woman in her thought.
No. He only thinks he does.
“I have—had—.” She never knew how to put it. “Um…breast cancer.”
“That must have sucked.”
“It wasn’t the high point of my life. But I’m on the road to recovery. All my tests have come back clear. I caught
it early and wiped it out at the source.”
She shifted her shoulders unconsciously feeling the dull reminder of the implants.
“You’ll feel more like yourself if you don’t have to lug around prosthetics,” Mom had coaxed.
“I don’t plan to wear falsies, Mom. I’ll be flat chested for the rest of my life. Lots of women are.”
“You won’t be happy with that, Mia,” Doctor Sharsmith had insisted. “Your clothes won’t fit right. Your femininity will take a serious hit. I’ve had patients who chose that route, but within six months they changed their minds. Breasts are a part of your body image, Mia. Let me give you back your natural curves.”
So, she’d agreed to more surgeries. More risks. More fear that she might not wake up from the anesthesia, and her poor children would be left in the care of their irresponsible and morally challenged father.
Now, she was outwardly normal—or some vague semblance of normal. She was skinny. Weak. Vulnerable to germs. Terrified of carcinogens, sugar, processed foods, and artificial dyes. She hated looking at herself in the mirror, and the question had crossed her mind lately whether or not any man would ever desire her?
If she wasn’t totally mistaken, this man found her attractive. Or thought he did.
Maybe this is a distraction to game me into giving up my land.
Like that would happen.
Members of the Big Sky Mavericks never gave up.
Period.
Suddenly feeling more like her old self than she had in months, she leaned in and kissed him. Three…four…seconds of heart-stopping strangeness. His lips solidly touching hers. No tongue or heavy breathing, just a tingling caused no doubt by the “mones,” as her future sister-in-law called the little buggers.
Bailey. Cake tasting.
She jerked back. “Cake.”
“No, thanks. But I wouldn’t mind another kiss.”
She jumped to her feet. “I left my mother at the tasting. I have to go.”
“Okay.” He got up, too. “That works. I’d like to meet your mother.”
“What? Nooo.” Even to Mia’s ears the word came out close to the frequency of an osprey going in for a kill. “You can’t. Good grief, no. You are the enemy. Well, not exactly, but I’m not prepared to open this can of worms in front of my parents. They’ve been through enough. I’ll tell them my contractor was delayed and I may have to postpone building. That’s all they need to know for now.”
“First, I’m the enemy, then a can of worms? That’s flattering. Why’d you kiss me?”
She marched away, hoping he’d head in the other direction…toward her…his…the property.
He didn’t, of course. He jogged after her and stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. She tensed and automatically braced defensively as she’d learned in kickboxing. He let go and held out the small bag. “You paid for them.”
She felt stupid and embarrassed and rude. She started to apologize, but a movement near the spot where they first entered the tracks distracted her. People? Witnesses to her bad behavior?
She put a hand up to shade her eyes. “Oh, no. Hell, no. She didn’t. She wouldn’t. Not again.”
She shoved the bag in Ryker’s general direction and marched away, her heart thudding so hard in her chest it felt like it might break a rib.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
He followed, of course. What was it about men that made them so damn obtuse? Couldn’t he tell her already shitty life just hit another road bump?
“Who’s that?” he asked, his voice dropping so the young couple standing together huddled over some sort of contraband didn’t hear their approach.
Both wore ear buds, Mia saw. The boy, a lanky, younger version of the bad influence Emilee picked back in Cheyenne. This one was closer to her age, at least. But neither of them was old enough to buy cigarettes. At least, she hoped the slender trail of smoke that rose between them was from cigarettes not something worse.
Emilee was the first to notice people moving in her direction.
Her epithet was the one her grandmother hated the most.
“My daughter,” Mia said, answering Ryker’s question. “Repeat truant and soon to be grounded for life.”
*
Ryker felt the sea change, like a fast moving arid Sirocco the moment it hit the Mediterranean.
Look out, Italy, here comes the perfect storm, he thought, studying the two high school students. Young. Freshmen, maybe? The girl was an inch or two taller than her mom. Slim with long, thick, medium brown hair tinged with artificial-looking black highlights. Her eye make-up, while not classic Goth, was too heavy-handed to be fashionable. Ryker’s brief stint in the New York fashion industry had taught him more than he ever wished to know about make-up and women’s insecurities.
But, bad make-up or not, she shared Mia’s lovely nose and expressive mouth. He wished like heck he and Mia were still making out on the tracks, because the look of pain and disappointment on Mia’s face wasn’t easy to take. He liked her. He didn’t like seeing her hurt and upset.
“I gotta go,” the boy said, dropping his barely lit cigarette to the ground.
Ryker squashed it with his heel. “Dude. Litter. Not to mention a deplorable lack of balls.” He picked up the thoroughly flattened butt and held it out to the boy.
The kid’s lip curled back in a snarl, but Ryker wasn’t worried. He’d dealt with worse. He pinned the kid with the Bensen stare. The fearful, piss-your-pants inducing glare his brother taught him right after Ryker’s first fight in high school. “The key is making sure you mean it,” Flynn said. “Never use the stare unless you’re prepared to inflict—and receive—pain. If you’re truly committed, the other person will usually back down. Usually.”
Ryker stared. The kid swallowed hard, his gaze slicing sideways to the girl he’d been prepared to toss under her mother’s bus. After a full minute of indecision, he took Ryker’s offering and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Skipping school. What are you doing out here?” She looked at Ryker. “Who are you?”
Ryker gave the girl points for deflection, but Mia snapped her fingers to regain her daughter’s attention. “None of your business. If you were in school where you are both supposed to be, you wouldn’t have met. Let’s go. Grandma’s Jeep is in front of the bakery.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Mia pulled her phone out of the pocket of her skirt. “I believe truancy is still an enforceable violation in this state. But let me ask my old friend, the chief of police, to be sure.”
Ryker’s respect for Mia shot up the scale. Well played, Mom. Would he have known to do that? Hell, no. And as much as he hated to admit it, he still hadn’t embraced the idea of fatherhood completely when the possibility had been stolen from him. If he hadn’t felt ready to be a father to his unborn baby, he sure as hell had no business looking at a relationship with a woman with half-grown kids.
“Fine. We’ll go back. Won’t we, Jarrod?”
She reached for her friend’s free hand, but Jarrod glanced at Ryker and stuck both hands in the pockets of his slouchy, low-hanging pants. The pose made him look a bit like the Elephant Man.
Mia pointed imperiously and waited. Once the kids were out of earshot, she said in a terse voice, “Em was the easiest baby on the planet. Hunter never quit crying his whole first year. Now, he’s the easy one and I’m living a teen nightmare.”
“Were you tough on your mother?”
She paused a moment. “Me? No. I was too busy trying to be perfect.”
He watched her walk away, the weight of the parenting world balanced on her narrow shoulders. He couldn’t imagine how much responsibility she must feel as a single mom. Even though he was currently broke and living in a tent, at least he was responsible for one person only—himself. And even though, rationally, he knew the universe didn’t work this way, a part of him—the part that attended Sunday school once a week as a child—wondered if Colette and their baby died because God knew what
a lousy dad he’d make?
He coughed to clear the lump in his throat and bent over to pick up Emilee’s squashed cigarette, which apparently hadn’t even been lit. He hated smoking. Both of his parents smoked when he was growing up. Someone—his dad’s best friend, Dave Cornelius, Ryker thought—said at Dad’s funeral, “The cigs did him in. I’m going to quit once all this settles down.”
He didn’t. Flynn emailed Ryker a copy of Dave’s obit when Ryker was shooting a story on air pollution and the Olympics on the Great Wall. Fifty-six was too damn young.
Ryker turned and climbed the rise to the railway bed again. He retrieved his jacket and the little sack of chocolates he’d tried to give Mia. She was a complicated woman with a messy life that included two semi-grown kids. Not to mention the fact they both believed they owned the same piece of land. The smart thing would be to keep as far away from Mia Zabrinski as possible.
So why could he still feel the sensation of her lips against his? For that brief moment of connection he’d felt his focus sharpen the way it did when he found the sweet spot and intuition told him he’d just taken the best shot of his life. The money shot. Her kiss had been money-shot perfect.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Ryker. It’s me, Louise. I found you a job.”
He had to blink a couple of times to re-train his focus. “A job?”
“The guy who takes yearbook photos for the school is looking for an assistant. Just a few days of work, but it pays enough to keep your nose above water until your brother calls. I’m texting you his number.”
School photos? Me? Seriously?
Hmm, he thought, realizing his ego was alive and well after all. Too bad. He had a lawyer to pay and he needed to find a place to live.
“Thank you, Louise. You are a peach. I’ll call him right away.”
“Great. I told him you were terribly over-qualified.”
“What did he say?”
She laughed in a way that made Ryker smile. “He said, ‘Aren’t we all?’”
Chapter 5
‡
“I hate her, Roxy. I do.”
Emilee spoke softly, but the words seemed to echo off the stacks of boxes in her grandparents’ garage. She’d parked herself on Roxy’s giant stuffed doggie bed rather than go through the kitchen where Grandma and Mom were talking. About me, no doubt.
Montana Darling (Big Sky Mavericks Book 3) Page 7