by Robyn Carr
Through the final reel, as Randi Wilding relentlessly hunted down and disposed of all the rustlers who’d dared to do their dirty work on her ranch, Sophie B. Jones gave herself a good talking-to.
Life, after all, was not a movie. In real life, handing a man his change should not be a transcendent experience. And it hadn’t been a transcendent experience—except in her own suddenly hyperactive imagination, which she was squelching as of now.
By the time the final credits rolled, Sophie felt she had herself under reasonable control. She climbed down the ladder from the booth-hayloft, pulled back the curtains that masked her concession stand and opened the big barn doors wide.
Then, by the light of that almost full August moon, with another of her cats in her arms, she stood in the open doors and said goodbye to all of her guests personally, just as she always did.
Among those guests was Oggie Jones. At least once a month, he drove down from the tiny nearby town of North Magdalene for an evening at the movies.
“Quite a shoot-’em-up tonight, gal,” Oggie declared when his turn came to say goodbye.
Sophie let the cat slide to the ground and held out her arms. The old sweetheart allowed her to hug him. He smelled of those awful cigars he was always smoking, but Sophie didn’t really mind. She simply adored him. The first time he’d come to the Mountain Star, he’d told her to call him Uncle Oggie. And she had from then on, because it seemed so natural. Three years ago, he’d invited her to North Magdalene, a half hour’s drive from the Mountain Star, northeast on old Highway Forty-Nine. She’d met his whole family, his four sons and his daughter, their spouses and their children. They’d welcomed her as if she were one of them. Since then, she’d returned to visit often.
She wasn’t sure what it was about Oggie, but whenever she saw him, she always experienced the loveliest rising of affection in her heart—as if he really were her uncle, instead of just a sweet old character who shared her last name and her fondness for offbeat movies.
“Oh, Uncle Oggie, I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
“I always enjoy myself. It’s the only way to live.” He leaned in closer, lowered his raspy voice and wiggled his grizzled eyebrows in the direction of Tall, Dark and Dangerous—who just happened to be standing near the concession counter showing no inclination to leave. “Someone’s watching you.”
Sophie shrugged—casually she hoped. “I haven’t a clue why.”
Oggie’s small wise eyes seemed to bore holes right through her. Then he grinned. “Somethin’ tells me that you ain’t gonna be clueless for long.”
And Oggie was right. After all the other guests had gone, Sophie’s brooding stranger remained—which, Sophie told herself, didn’t matter one bit.
She had work to do. Turning to the small table in the corner, she scooped up two stacks of used popcorn bowls. Then she started toward the man at the counter, who just kept on leaning there, watching her approach.
When she got about a foot from him, she paused.
“Show’s over.” She tried to sound breezy and unconcerned.
“I know.” He didn’t move. He looked completely relaxed, as if he hung around after the show all the time—waiting for her.
“Everyone’s gone,” she said, trying again. “Except you.”
“I noticed.”
She decided she was going to have to be more direct. “Now you have to go—and I have to clean up.”
He only went on looking at her, an assessing kind of look, a look that made her skin feel warm and her heart beat way too fast.
She told her heart to settle down—and held out the used popcorn bowls. “Well, fine. If you’re going to hang around, you might as well make yourself useful.”
He gave her another of those almost smiles of his. Then he shrugged and accepted the bowls.
She pointed at the curtain behind the counter. “Take those right through there.”
Her stranger was standing by the double metal sink, still holding his share of the bowls, when she joined him in the small alcove behind the curtain.
“Just drop them in the sink.”
He did as she instructed, then stood out of the way as she piled the rest of the bowls on top, squirted in a stream of dish soap and started the water running. With a swiftness born of long practice, she began washing bowls and dropping them into the empty half of the sink.
Her stranger caught on fast. He flipped the faucet to the right, turned on the water and reached for a soapy bowl. When he had it rinsed, he held it up and quirked an eyebrow.
“Just set them right there. They’ll dry by themselves.”
He put the bowl on the grooved steel drainboard and picked up the next one, and then the next. From the corner of her eye, she could see those beautiful hands, working as efficiently as her own. The Prince of Darkness does the dishes, she thought, and had to stifle a burst of foolish laughter. His watch winked at her, platinum and gold, a watch that must have cost more than the Dodge Caravan she was still making payments on.
A few minutes later, Sophie dried her hands and then passed him the towel.
“What else?” He hung the towel back on its peg.
“Sweeping the aisles and taking out the trash.”
“Hand me the broom.”
She leaned back against the sink and slid him a sideways glance. “You really would, wouldn’t you?”
“Sweep the floor? Why not?” He waited. When she didn’t move, he added, “But I’ll need a broom to do it.”
She shuffled her feet and crossed her arms. “Well, I guess I just can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Ask a total stranger to do my scut work.”
He looked amused. “You didn’t ask, I volunteered.”
“No. I handed you those bowls. I told you to make yourself useful.”
He laughed. It was a deep, very masculine sound. It sent lovely warm shivers racing right beneath the surface of her skin.
She said, “Look. Never mind. I can do it in the morning.”
He shrugged, leaned on the other side of the sink and crossed his arms over his chest in a mirror of her own pose.
She looked down at her sandaled feet. When she dared to glance his way again, those dark eyes were waiting for her.
She had to know. “All right. Who are you?”
He answered without hesitation. “My name is Sinclair. Sinclair Riker.”
It took Sophie a minute to believe what she’d heard. Then she barely managed to stifle a gasp.
The man beside her chuckled. “From the look on your face, I’d say the locals have been filling your ears with old gossip.”
Sophie struggled to compose herself. “I…of course, I’ve heard of you—that is, if you’re the same Sinclair Riker whose family once owned this ranch.”
“That’s me.”
Sophie looked down at her sandals again. The old story was such a sad one. And from the way she’d heard it, he had been a vulnerable child of six when the grim events took place.
Not sure if he’d welcome a direct mention of the tragedy, Sophie ventured, “I think I heard that your mother took you away from here—to Southern California, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right, but my mother’s been dead for a few years now.”
Sophie murmured an expression of sympathy.
He shrugged. “It was all a long time ago.”
What did he mean by that? A long time since his mother had died? A long time since his father had lost the ranch—and then hung himself in despair? His eyes told her nothing, though she wanted to know everything.
He turned away and stared off toward the curtain that led back to the main part of the barn.
Sophie reminded herself—again—that they’d only just met. She had no right at all to expect him to tell her things he probably didn’t even like thinking about.
She asked carefully, “Are you…all right?”
He faced her again. His eyes had a strange, hot light in them.
Sophie
thought she understood what he felt. “You’ve wondered about your family home, haven’t you? You wanted to come and see for yourself what happened to it.”
He didn’t answer, only went on staring at her with those burning dark eyes.
She began to feel uncomfortable. “What is it? Have I got it all wrong?”
He shook his head. “No, not at all. The truth is, you’ve figured me out.”
It was a lie.
Sin Riker knew exactly what had happened to his family home.
He owned it. The sale had been finalized two weeks before.
And now, he intended to claim what was his, to buy out this innocent and eliminate the peculiar enterprise she called the Mountain Star.
Chapter 2
Sin stared into those gorgeous brown eyes—eyes utterly lacking in guile. Eyes that said she simply wanted to know about him.
What the hell was it about her?
She wasn’t his type at all.
He found himself thinking of Willa, with her black hair like a swatch of silk and her brittle, knowing laugh. Willa Tweed was his kind of woman: clever, ambitious—and sexy as hell. A talented interior designer, Willa had handled the decorating of several office buildings for him. She’d kept his interest for over a year, both in and out of bed. She’d seemed the perfect match for him, so he had asked her to marry him.
And yet, when she’d called the whole thing off, he hadn’t found it difficult at all to let her go. Which, he supposed, was just more proof of his total lack of character.
As if he needed more proof.
The Jones woman’s generous mouth bloomed in an artless smile. “I understand completely,” she assured him. “I love this place. If I ever had to leave it, I know I’d be drawn back again—just to see it, to know that it’s still here.”
Watching her smile, listening to her sympathize when no sympathy was called for, Sin knew he should call a halt right then. She betrayed herself so easily. Those eyes of hers didn’t know how to lie. And she was warming to him, starting to like him. She had a sunny, trusting nature. In no time at all, she would be telling him all about herself—all the facts of her life that he already knew.
There was no point at all in indulging in this flirtation with her.
Except that he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“Hello, are you in there?” Sophie teased. To her, it seemed as if Sinclair had been standing there, regarding her intently, saying nothing, for about half a century. He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m here, all right.”
“Good.”
They shared a warm glance, standing there side by side against the steel sink. Sophie recalled how she’d lectured herself about him, up in the hayloft during the second reel.
But now that all seemed so silly. She wanted to get to know him, and she could think of no reason why she shouldn’t.
Especially now that she knew his name.
Sinclair Riker. She still couldn’t quite believe it.
Since the first time she’d heard the sad story of the Rikers, Sophie had wondered about them, felt for them really, to have owned this beautiful piece of land and then to have lost it. For the boy, Sinclair, her sympathy had gone even deeper. He’d been so young to lose so much. Her heart went out to him.
“Your name is Sophie—isn’t it?” His tone chided, but very gently.
And Sophie felt a little ashamed. Here she’d been so suspicious of him, and yet she was the one who hadn’t even provided her name. “Yes. Sophie. Sophie B. Jones. Most folks just call me Sophie B.”
“B for?”
“Bernadette.”
He made a low noise in his throat. “Don’t tell me. It was your grandmother’s name, right?”
She shook her head. “Why would you think that?”
“Because it was my grandmother’s name.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.” His gaze swept over her from head to toe. “So if it wasn’t your grandmother’s name, then whose?”
“My mother chose it. From an old movie. The Song of Bernadette, starring Jennifer Jones. Ever heard of it?”
He shook his head.
“Bernadette was a nun, I believe. In the movie.”
“A nun,” he murmured. “I should have known.”
For that, she made a face at him. “I remind you of a nun?”
“Did I say that?”
“You didn’t have to.”
He leaned her way then, and lowered his voice. “I have to admit, I asked around a little.”
She wasn’t surprised. “About the ranch?”
He nodded. “Everyone I talked to seemed to know all about Ms. Sophie B. Jones and the Mountain Star Resort.”
She wrinkled up her nose. “I hope they only said nice things.”
“Only terrific things.” He reached out and took her hand. His touch sent tiny, lovely tingles all through her. With great care, he wrapped her fingers in the crook of his arm. It felt absolutely wonderful to have him do that—as well as absolutely right. “Come on. Show me what you’ve done with my father’s ranch.”
Beyond the barn doors, the August moon shone down through the pines. A gentle breeze stirred the branches, creating haunting plays of shadow and silvery light. Somewhere off by the small creek that wound over the property, they could hear the night songs of crickets and frogs.
“It is a beautiful place,” Sinclair said.
In lieu of a reply, Sophie squeezed his arm, then suggested, “How about the stables first?”
Before he could answer, two figures materialized out of the shadows not far from the barn doors.
“Sophie B.,” a male voice said.
Sophie felt Sinclair’s lean arm stiffen under her hand. She gave that arm another squeeze. “It’s all right. These are friends.”
The two came into the light: a man and a woman—well, a boy and a girl, really. Neither could have been much out of their teens. Sophie felt pretty sure of their names. “Hello, Ben. And Melody.” Each carried a bedroll and a backpack. Even in the kind light of the moon, their jeans and T-shirts looked worn.
Melody laughed. “We scared you, huh?”
“Never,” Sophie replied.
“We meant to get here for the show, but we were too late.”
More likely, they didn’t have the money for the tickets. Sophie would have let them in anyway, but they were proud kids, kids who didn’t like taking charity—especially not for non-necessities like movies.
Sophie shrugged. “Maybe next time.”
“Yeah. Next time. Cool.”
Sophie knew what they wanted. “Campground’s open, as far as I’m concerned.”
Ben looked relieved. “Thanks. We’re really beat. Come on, Mel.”
They hoisted their packs and started off in the opposite direction from the main house. Sophie called after them. “Stop in and say hi to Myra tomorrow, why don’t you?”
Melody called back, “Thanks, Sophie B. You’re the best.”
Sinclair spoke. “The ‘campground’ is open?” His tone seemed to mock her.
Sophie turned to look at him. But the moon was behind him. His face lay in shadow. She couldn’t see his expression. “I call it a campground,” she said, “but it’s really just a nice, grassy spot with trees all around. On a mild night like this one, it’s a great place to spread a sleeping bag.” She pointed. “It’s just over that rise there.”
“Those two have nowhere else to go, is that it?” There was a definite chill in his voice, she was sure of that now.
She answered gently. “I don’t know if they have anywhere else to go. All I know is that they need a place to stay for tonight and I can provide that easily.”
“If you let people move in on you, you’re just asking for trouble.”
She didn’t believe that and she never would. “They’ll be on their way in the morning.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It always works out that way. The street people who come here know how to behave
.”
“You’ve been lucky.”
“I suppose I have,” she admitted. “But it’s not only that.”
“Oh, no? What else, then?”
She shot him a grin. “I have to tell you, I never let skeptics like you get to me.”
“All right, then.” His voice had changed again, lost its cold edge. “Why won’t you share your secret—if it’s more than plain luck?”
“Because you’ll only laugh if I tell you.”
“No.” He put his hand over hers. “I won’t laugh. I swear.”
His touch sent those shivers zinging through her all over again. She couldn’t help relenting. “All right. In my experience, people tend to fulfill my expectations of them. So I always make it a point to keep my expectations good and high.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then he let out a breath. “As I said, you’ve been lucky.”
“Call it luck if you want to. But it works for me.” She tugged on his arm. “Now, come on. The stables are waiting.”
They went down a slate path, beneath the leafy shelter of a double row of maples, until they came to a rambling woodsided building from which a series of linked corrals branched off. Inside the stables, Sophie turned on the lights and they walked between the rows of stalls.
Sophie said, “I know your father used to raise horses here. Morgans, mostly, weren’t they?”
“Yes. We lost them all, though. They took them away when they kicked us out of the house.”
Another wave of sympathy washed through her. How could he have borne all those losses at such a young age? “It must have been awful for you.”
He studied her face for a moment. “As I said…”
“I know. It was a long time ago.”
Sophie paused to stroke the forehead of a friendly roan gelding and explained that none of the horses belonged to the Mountain Star. “We run a boarding service for people who don’t have the space to keep their own horses. Some of the owners allow guests at the main house to ride their animals, under certain conditions—and for a fee, of course.”
“Certain conditions?”
“Caleb Taggart, who runs the stables for me, has to check them out first, see if they know how to ride and how to treat a horse.”
Right then, Caleb, who was six foot five and broad as an oak, appeared from the apartment he’d fixed up for himself off the tack room. He loomed huge and imposing before them. “Everything okay, Sophie B.?” He looked at her guest with stolid wariness.